


you got me wondering (will I burn or implode)

by orangeiguanas4



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Closeted Character, Drama, F/F, Headcanon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-06 21:00:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 109,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangeiguanas4/pseuds/orangeiguanas4
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinntana Week 2013: Day 5, Headcanon</p><p>Takes place during and after "I Do"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It would be flat-out lying to say that she never admired how breathtakingly gorgeous Quinn Fabray is. In fact, Quinn was the first girl Santana had truly appreciated beyond typical admiration for the other girls. Every time she had to stand next to Quinn in the Cheerios locker room, it took all her effort to keep her eyes locked forward into the depths of her own locker to avoid staring at those abs as Quinn changed beside her.

Through high school, Santana found other ways to distract herself from thinking about Quinn. It was easier to focus on maintaining her reputation by excelling where Quinn Fabray wouldn’t: in sexual prowess. For the most part, it worked out relatively well. Quinn kept Finn close, leaving Santana with her choice from the rest of the school as her arm candy. Sex with guys wasn’t usually the most pleasant experience, but it was all about keeping her mind off of Quinn’s legs in that Cheerio skirt and maintaining a high level of popularity.

Finn spewing her biggest secret to a crowded hallway changed a lot of things for Santana. Sure, she loved Brittany; they had been best friends since elementary school. Brittany was an affectionate person and Santana enjoyed her soft, feminine hands more than she ever appreciated the oversized, fumbling hands of her male partners. She enjoyed Brittany’s company, but she wasn’t in love with Brittany the way that Finn implied.

Deep down Santana knew that Brittany didn’t love her in that way either. But having Brittany attached to her side as she was forced to come out in Lima made it so much more bearable of an experience. So they dated and enjoyed one another’s company and for the most part, Santana was happy.

College cheerleading had never been part of her life plan. Cheerleading in high school was one thing: it was a status symbol that was unmatched by any other extracurricular activity. The Cheerios were the best at what they did and that was just a bonus compared to being the most popular kids at McKinley. In college, the main focus was on crowd-pleasing at football games. The other girls were bitchy and jealous of Santana’s quick assent to the top of the squad (being a former Cheerio under the infamous Sue Sylvester did have some lasting perks) and Louisville was easily just as lame as Lima had been. From the first day of cheer camp in August, Santana knew that she was destined for greater things than what Louisville would ever be able to offer her.

Being in Kentucky meant being close enough to visit Brittany whenever she wanted. It was bad enough that Brittany had been able to keep it a secret that she wouldn’t be graduating, but leaving her in Lima as the rest of their grade moved onto other things had been horrible. It had been her duty to protect Brittany from the reality of high school and she had failed to make sure they could leave McKinley together.

In reality, it wasn’t as much about Brittany needing Santana there as it was about Santana needing to be there for Brittany. Brittany was her safety net and her biggest motivator. She was one of the only people that ever made Santana leave her comfort zone. But she was also the person that always caught Santana when she fell. If Brittany hadn’t gone to Sylvester, Santana probably wouldn’t have left Lima at all. Despite being an integral part in that decision, Brittany was the one that sent Santana on her way when she was trying to play it safe after dropping out of college. Santana needed the kick in the ass to chase her dreams that only Brittany was able to give her.

~!~!~!~

Santana is only just starting to get the hang of New York City with its incredibly confusing subway system and plethora of people that are in a constant rush to go anywhere when it is time to go back to Lima for Mr. Schue’s wedding. A Valentine’s Day wedding is really the lamest idea she has ever heard, but the soft spot that she still holds for the glee club makes her fly back to Ohio, pull on a red dress – she vowed to never wear pink again after Rachel and Finn’s failed wedding – and head to the church.

She runs into Quinn on the front steps of the church and they walk in together while Santana’s new roommates rekindle their pathetic high school relationships within twenty-four hours of landing back in Lima. Brittany shows up hand-in-hand with Sam, who is wearing a grin like he had just won the lottery. They spot Santana sitting with Quinn a few pews back and give a little wave in greeting. Santana returns it and tries not to think what would have happened between her and Brittany if she hadn’t left Lima without Brittany in August. This is the best thing for them as individuals: Santana is following her dreams and Brittany is taking the extra time to figure out what she wanted to do after high school. They had spent so much time doing everything as an inseparable duo that it just felt a little off to be so distant now.

Quinn goes on a rampage about hating men as she fixes her makeup in the pew beside Santana. Santana bites back her more vicious remarks about Quinn’s experience with men, figuring that if she had to attend this wedding stag, she should probably not piss off the one person that is willing to keep her company for the evening.

There was something different about Quinn since she had left for college. Sure, she was still an arrogant bitch, as shown by her condescending tone and following slap to Santana’s face on Thanksgiving weekend. But seeing her in New York when Kurt called them to help Rachel was like Santana was seeing a new version of Quinn. 

She was still snarky, but as the two of them squeezed onto Rachel and Kurt’s couch that night, a soft side of Quinn that Santana never had experienced slipped through the cracks. Maybe it was the wine that had drank or maybe it was the rush of being in New York away from the pressures of their real lives, but Santana listened as Quinn talked about how different Yale was and about ending her messed up relationship with her psych professor. They talked late into the night, both about the future and the past, and Santana let Quinn into her head more in that one night than she had ever let another person in her entire life. 

Quinn had always been someone that let her relationships be the focus of her life. Santana figured that Quinn would have picked up some rich, preppy guy at Yale once her ridiculous affair with the professor ran its course. She came to the wedding with no date and with no tolerance for men at the moment, which instantly made Santana wonder about what was going on with Quinn. It was so far out of what she had grown to expect from Quinn. As soon as the feeling of hope rushed into her, Santana squashed it back down. Quinn was a beautiful, straight woman that was having a moment of hatred towards the opposite sex. That didn’t mean Santana had a real shot. She never had and never was going to as long as men were on the planet.

The wedding ends up not happening since Miss Pillsbury flew the coop, but Mr. Schue insists that the reception go on as planned since everybody traveled to be there for the wedding. Santana and Quinn waste no time when they enter the reception hall. Within minutes, glasses of wine are placed in front of them. Santana picks hers up and turns to watch the crowd fill up the room.

It catches Santana off guard when Quinn compliments her. In all of her time of being friends with Quinn, she couldn’t remember a time where Quinn had genuinely paid her a compliment. Like herself, there was always an ulterior motive for Quinn’s actions. Santana would have brushed it off as Quinn being polite, but the stroke of Quinn’s fingers down her bicep and the twinkle in Quinn’s eyes told her that is definitely not the case. If Santana is being honest with herself, she would believe that Quinn Fabray is actually openly flirting with her.

After a few more drinks, Santana finally drags Quinn onto the dance floor. It’s an upbeat song and Quinn doesn’t let go of Santana’s hand even once they’re in the middle of the crowd. Instead, she tugs on it until Santana moves closer to her. They’re facing one another and Santana studies the blonde shamelessly as they start to move with the music. Quinn has a playful smile dancing on her lips as she inches in closer, letting her fingers intertwine with Santana’s. She’s definitely tipsy if her rosy cheeks and glassy eyes are anything to go by, but Santana loves this happy drunk side of Quinn.

When the music slows down, Quinn doesn’t let go of Santana’s hand. With a cock of her head, Santana silently questions Quinn’s intentions. Quinn steps into her and lets go of her hand so that she can lock them behind Santana’s neck instead. On pure instinct, Santana allows her hands fall onto Quinn’s waist as they fall into a slow, rocking rhythm.

She isn’t surprised when Quinn tells her that she’s never slow danced with a girl before. At first, she wonders if this is Quinn telling her that to make sure that Santana understands that dancing together means nothing. But then Quinn is telling her that she likes it as she pulls Santana into her even tighter and Santana isn’t sure of what is really going on anymore. This seems to have crossed the line of just being friendly and she lets Quinn hold her close as Rachel’s voice fills the room.

With another glass of wine, Quinn is pulling her into the lobby and upstairs towards the hotel room she rented. Santana doesn’t argue as they giggle and skip their way through the hallway. Quinn’s hand keeps finding hers and her face is alight in a way Santana never thought she would get to experience. Quinn stumbles and laughs as she unlocks the door and heads into the room. Santana throws her hands up excitedly before she disappears behind her.

Quinn kisses her first, catching Santana completely off-guard. She stumbles backwards from the force of Quinn pushing into her front. They break apart in another fit of giggles and Santana bends down to yank her heels off of her tired feet. Quinn does the same, gripping onto Santana for balance in the dark room.

Santana gropes for the light switch by the door and flips it on, bathing them in the dim light of the overhead lamp. Quinn’s hair is already mussed from running up to the hotel room and Santana reaches out, pulling Quinn’s mouth towards her by the back of her neck.

Quinn moans when Santana skips gently kissing her and pushes her tongue into her mouth, tasting the sweetness of wine on Quinn’s tongue. Santana pushes down the thoughts of where this change in Quinn is coming from and basks in the feel of Quinn responding to each movement of her tongue. Quinn fights her for control and Santana relinquishes it readily, her stomach tightening at the determined stroke of Quinn’s tongue along her lower lip before her teeth bite down on it.

“Fuck, Q,” Santana mumbles as Quinn tugs on her lip before running her tongue along it again. Santana groans and starts nudging Quinn back into the room. They stumble along in their bare feet until Quinn’s calves hit the bottom of the bed. She pulls away and Santana feels her heart race at the sight of Quinn looking at her with such need.

Santana reaches behind herself and slowly pulls the zipper down her back. Quinn’s eyes stay locked on Santana’s and she sucks her bottom lip into her mouth as the material falls away and leaves Santana standing in just a strapless bra and panties directly in front of her. Santana smirks when she hears Quinn loudly exhale as Quinn lets her eyes travel downward, taking in her enhanced chest in contrast to her incredibly flat stomach.

With no hesitation, Santana moves forward and takes hold of the front of Quinn’s jacket. She can feel the heat radiating from Quinn and she speeds up just a fraction, keeping her eyes locked on Quinn’s as she slides the material off of Quinn’s shoulders and down her arms. Quinn moves with Santana until the jacket is dropped to the floor. Santana moves even closer and reaches behind Quinn, letting her breathe in Quinn’s perfume as she leans in to kiss Quinn’s neck as she reaches for the zipper of the dress.

The little whimper that Quinn releases as Santana kisses her way down her neck as she starts to pull the dress away from Quinn’s body is the best sound Santana thinks she has ever heard. It spurs Santana on and she kisses along her left collarbone as the pink dress pools around Quinn’s ankles. Quinn’s fingers grip at Santana’s shoulders, her nails digging into the bare skin.

“Bed?” Santana mumbles against the crook of Quinn’s neck as she kisses along it. She feels Quinn nod her head and Santana giggles at the enthusiasm Quinn puts behind it.

She pulls away from Quinn in order to shove her back onto to the bed. Quinn grunts as her back hits the mattress with a thud. Santana stands at the edge and admires the mostly-naked Quinn splayed across the hotel bed. Quinn’s eyelashes flutter and she gives Santana a lazy smile. Santana climbs onto the bed next to her and Quinn turns on her side, resting her hand on Santana’s ribs as she leans in to kiss her.

Santana returns the kiss, keeping them slow and delicate despite Quinn trying to push the pace. Her head feels light, both from the wine and the taste of Quinn’s lip-gloss, and Santana is afraid to move too fast and lose the connection building between them.

Quinn doesn’t want to be patient, however, and she battles against Santana for control. Santana resists as much as she can, pulling away before diving back in for short pecks. Quinn doesn’t give up though, and Santana doesn’t push her away when Quinn rolls into her. It is in an effortless motion that Quinn has Santana pinned against the mattress. Santana doesn’t fight it; she is mesmerized by the way Quinn’s hair, which has grown out since graduation,  
falls in a curtain around her face.

She only gets a short time to gaze at Quinn before the blonde hair is tickling her cheeks as Quinn is kissing her. Her eyes flutter closed at the sensation of Quinn’s tongue pushing against her lips. She shudders at the feel of Quinn’s fingers scraping up her ribs Even the simplest touches are igniting every inch of her, but she wills herself to let Quinn control where this night is going.

Despite her inexperience, Quinn isn’t afraid to take what she wants. Quinn has always been able to get whatever she puts her mind to and Santana knows that tonight has become one of those scenarios. And despite the fact that she wants so much more than a random carefree evening of casual sex with the girl of her dreams, this is all about Quinn. So when Quinn’s hand ventures upwards to cup Santana through her bra, she arches into the touch and pushes all other thoughts out of her mind.

Quinn’s hands move with purpose, gliding over the fabric and lingering over Santana’s straining nipples, teasing them with a light pinch of her fingers. Santana feels ridiculous at how quickly Quinn has managed to work her up, but she is already losing control of her body; her hips push up into Quinn as her mouth continues to explore every inch of Quinn’s. She can hardly focus enough to reach behind Quinn to unsnap her bra with the pleasure that is coursing through her from the simple ministrations of Quinn’s skillful hands.

Eventually she finds the clasp of Quinn’s bra and she manages to get it off on the first try with one deft movement. The material bunches between their bodies and Quinn lets go of her in order to sit up and pull the straps down her forearms until she can toss the garment away from them. Quinn wastes no time in mimicking the action, forcing Santana’s back off the bed enough for her to yank the clasp apart hastily and throwing the bra off the edge of the bed.

Santana is trying not to stare; it isn’t anything she hasn’t seen before at sleepovers or in the Cheerio locker room, of course, but in the dim light of the hotel room, Quinn looks more like a flawless angel than Santana has ever seen. Hazel eyes have turned dark as her pupils have expanded with lust and she smirks down at Santana. She slides back down, letting their bodies come together. Santana’s moan is swallowed by Quinn’s mouth when their chests rub together for the first time, the lack of material allowing Quinn’s soft skin to glide seductively against hers.

Quinn reaches her hand in between them and palms Santana’s chest delicately. Santana sucks in a breath and holds as still as she can as Quinn explores the flesh: cupping it and squeezing lightly, running her fingertips against a hard nipple. It’s excruciatingly slow and easily the most intimate Santana has even been with another person. She bites her lip and lets Quinn explore every inch of exposed flesh.

Santana gasps as Quinn moves her lips down Santana’s jawline and along the skin of Santana’s neck, tongue darting out to drag along the salty skin. She doesn’t stop when she reaches the base of her neck; Santana feels the exhale of her hot breath against her collarbone before lips make contact with the skin as they drift along Santana’s collarbone and down onto her breast bone.

She can feel Quinn hesitate just for a second and she opens her eyes as Quinn’s lips start to move up from the valley of her chest. She focuses on Quinn’s mouth and the way it moves so delicately against her, leaving a damp trail in its wake. 

It’s hard to not just lose herself to the pleasure when the warmth of Quinn’s mouth finally encloses a stiff nipple. She groans as Quinn’s tongue flicks against the tip and the suction around it increases in response. Quinn is using Santana’s actions as her guide and Santana is happy to encourage her. She grips tightly at Quinn’s waist, fingernails digging into the pale flesh. Her hands are twitching in anticipation of touching Quinn, but this about letting Quinn have what she wants and right now it is obvious that what she wants is to made Santana explode with pleasure.

Quinn moves to her other nipple and her fingers come up to play in unison, making Santana’s hips buck up into Quinn’s stomach, desperate to find relief for the throbbing between her legs. Quinn giggles against her and Santana can feel Quinn’s anxiousness over where this is heading. She runs her hands up Quinn’s sides, kneading them and tracing the outline of each rib. Quinn pulls her mouth away and rests her forehead against Santana’s chest, her breaths coming in rapid pants. Santana doesn’t hesitate as she runs her hands along heated skin, moving up the underside of Quinn’s breasts until her fingers are brushing against tense nipples.

Santana feels Quinn’s body tremble where it touches her own and she grows a little more aggressive, rolling nipples between her fingers and feeding off of Quinn’s barely audible whimpers. 

Quinn eventually lifts her head and slides up Santana’s body until their lips meet again. Santana has slept with girls before; Brittany was her first everything, but after their breakup she tried to branch out. Yet the feel of Quinn Fabray’s weight settling on top of her as her lips feverishly push against hers is unlike anything she’s ever experienced. She seems to know Santana in the most intimate ways; it’s like they’ve been doing this dance for their whole lifetime. Quinn knows when to push and pull her, ebbing and flowing, without Santana ever needing to lead her there. She understands the way Santana works in ways Santana doesn’t even know.

So when the inexperienced blonde pulls away and falls onto the bed next to Santana, Santana knows better than to question Quinn’s intentions. Ten seconds later, Santana’s red thong is being dragged down her tan thighs, grazing over her knees, skimming down her calves, and being unhooked from her ankles. She doesn’t see where Quinn disposes of it; she’s too busy taking in the look of admiration that Quinn is giving her incredibly exposed body.

She has watched Quinn’s eyes drag along her body so many times in the past five years of their quasi-friendship. There were uniform inspections for Cheerios and pool parties both before and after Santana’s summer surgery. Those were always almost clinical in nature in comparison to this moment. It’s hard to stay still and just let Quinn absorb every square inch of her. She wants to pull the blonde back down on top of her and let Quinn explore with her hands instead of her eyes. That would be a million times less intimate than this moment.

But this is Quinn, the girl that she has wished would look at her the same way that she looked at Quinn. And now Quinn is looking at her like she is the only girl in the world. That is the only thing that gets Santana to swallow her insecurities of being sprawled out naked on a hotel room bed bathed in crappy lighting.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Quinn whispers, reaching one hand out and letting it ghost along the ridge of Santana’s hipbone. Santana’s eyes fall closed and she swallows hard as she tries to control her impulses to put her walls back up. But she doesn’t want to shut Quinn out, not anymore.

She cracks her eyes open again and sees that Quinn is only looking at her face now. It’s the comfort she needs right now and Quinn seems to know that perfectly. Santana watches Quinn shift on the bed and then she’s discarding her own panties, her eyes never leaving Santana’s as she drops them off of the bed. Santana can’t contain the smile that sneaks onto her face. 

The pace speeds up again as soon as Santana reaches out and pulls Quinn back down onto her. Her hands find purchase on Quinn’s ass and she giggles against Quinn’s lips when the blonde squeaks in surprise at Santana’s sudden intensity. Their kisses grow sloppy and hands explore. Santana can feel the growing wetness between her legs and she clenches her thighs together as she scratches her perfectly manicured fingernails down the length of Quinn’s back. 

Santana loves the feeling of Quinn on top of her, but she wants to worship Quinn’s body in the way that nobody else has ever taken the time to do. So she delicately rolls Quinn off of her despite Quinn’s resistance. She reaches to the side and yanks out the sheets and the blankets. Quinn crawls underneath them and Santana follows her, letting the sheets come to rest by her hips as she hooks one leg between Quinn’s legs, spreading them open. Quinn gasps as Santana lowers herself down, forcing her thigh to graze along Quinn’s center, her wetness gathering on Santana’s bare skin.

She rocks into Quinn, slowly, steadily, taking in every line of Quinn’s features, every intake of breath. She balances on her forearms on either side of Quinn’s head, their noses merely inches apart, their warm breath heating the small space between them. Quinn’s eyes are closed and her mouth is hangs slightly open. She looks peaceful, more so than Santana has ever seen her.

Santana doesn’t want to tease her. She doesn’t want to play games. They will probably laugh about this later. Maybe when they are trying to catch their breath at dawn or ten years from now as they meet up for coffee on a Sunday afternoon. But either way, Santana wants it to be a memory, one that Quinn can carry with her without regret. She wants it to be everything that her first time with Puck wasn’t, everything that was missing from the loveless affair with the married professor.

So she snakes a hand down Quinn’s stomach and shifts her hips so that she can cup Quinn’s sex. Quinn groans and grinds her hips into her, but Santana holds her ground. God, she wants to fuck Quinn with all that she has. It might be what Quinn thinks she wants, but Santana knows that it is definitely not what Quinn needs. She runs her fingers along the swollen, wet folds fervently. Quinn gasps and grinds. Her hands reach for any part of Santana that they can hold onto.

Santana circles slowly, coming to rest at Quinn’s entrance. She holds still and waits for Quinn’s eyes to flutter open and focus on her own.

“What are you waiting for?” Quinn asks breathlessly, rocking her hips in an attempt to get Santana moving again.

“Always the romantic, Fabray,” Santana returns with an eye roll. So maybe this is just an experience for Quinn. It’s just sleeping with a girl to check something off her bucket list. Santana knows it’s not a night for candles and cheesy background music and whispered declarations of love. But she’s determined to make it as special as she can given the circumstances.

With Quinn’s eyes fixated on her, she watches as she slowly pushes one digit inside. Quinn bites down on her lip and a deep groan slips out between the rows of perfect teeth, but her eyes never leave Santana’s own. Santana contains her own moan at the feeling of Quinn’s walls gripping at her finger. She drags it back out, losing herself in how amazing it feels to get lost in Quinn. With a few more slow pumps, Quinn’s eyes fall closed again and she adds a second finger. Quinn takes it with relative ease, her body stretching to accommodate it. She’s tight and Santana can feel herself dripping down her inner thighs as she fills Quinn with increasingly rapid strokes, drawing out moans and whimpers from Quinn. She takes in Quinn heaving chest and her undulating hips and the fists gripping the sheets so hard that her knuckles have turned white.

It’s all too much for Santana and she feels like her chest is going to explode with everything she feels for Quinn. Studying her from above and seeing the sheer happiness painted on her features solely because of what Santana is doing is nearly too much for Santana to handle. After so many nights of thinking that Quinn would never understand how much she cares, this is her opportunity to show her with actions.

So Santana kisses down Quinn’s stomach, lingering on her hipbones and the apex of her thighs while her fingers pump into Quinn, curling against her wall inside as she pulls out. Her lips make contact with Quinn’s clit as she thrusts in again and the breathless obscenity that comes from Quinn is the sexiest thing she has ever heard.

Her tongue darts out, tasting the tangy sweetness that defines Quinn. Quinn reaches down and laces her fingers through Santana’s hair as Santana’s tongue rolls circles around her swollen clit. 

The wine has worn off, but Santana is drunk on tasting and feeling Quinn. Quinn’s calf comes up to wrap around Santana’s waist as she grinds her hips and pushes herself into Santana’s hand and face. There are a few long moments of Quinn’s hips lifting off of the mattress towards Santana and a few well-placed drags of Santana’s fingers and tongue before Quinn’s body goes rigid, suspended in the moment. Then she’s falling hard, her walls trapping Santana’s fingers, her body rolling with the waves. Santana’s name leaves her mouth in the midst of a strangled moan and Santana pushes on, drawing out even ounce of pleasure until Quinn shoves at her shoulder when it becomes too much.

Santana moves out from between Quinn’s legs and presses herself against Quinn’s side while the blonde catches her breath. Her skin glistens with the sheen of sweat and Santana kisses the salty crux of her neck softly before settling back next to her on the pillow.

Santana, for once in her life, doesn’t even care about reciprocation. She lays beside Quinn as her breath slowly evens out, leaving her sated and peaceful. Santana lets her own eyes close and she stays near Quinn, not quite cuddling into her. This is just sex, even if Santana has learned from experience that sex is so much better with feelings, and cuddling will just confuse whatever this is.

Quinn has other plans though and she reaches over to run her hand along Santana’s abs and down her side until she’s grasping Santana’s hip. She sits up, her eyes following the movement of her hand as she moves lower, inch by tantalizing inch. Santana’s legs part on instinct and Quinn releases a nervous giggle as she fingers move down Santana’s inner thigh. She pauses and sucks a breath in between her teeth before moving her hand upwards towards Santana’s glistening center.

Santana’s skin tingles everywhere that Quinn touches her, but the direct contact from her fingers makes Santana feel like she is on fire. Quinn’s fingers run along Santana, coating them with Santana’s wetness. She delves deeper into Santana’s folds, touching and exploring with a confidence Santana didn’t expect Quinn to have.

Who is she kidding though? Quinn is always the best at everything she attempts. Even with all of her ridiculous celibacy club bullshit, Santana is sure that the girl has to have explored her own body a few times. She hears that pregnancy hormones are crazy wild. Her mind starts wandering to what Quinn did on those quiet hours spent alone in the spare bedroom at Puckerman’s house. But those thoughts are quickly interrupted as Quinn finds her clit. Quinn doesn’t linger long, choosing instead to keep Santana guessing. She’s already impossibly wet, but every stroke of Quinn’s fingers seems to make her even wetter.

Her hips are bucking up into Quinn’s hand and Quinn finally gives in and fills Santana with two long, slim fingers. Santana is used to swallowing her moans from all the times she has fooled around at sleepovers with Brittany, but as soon as Quinn’s thumb finds her clit on a particularly forceful thrust, Santana can’t hold it in any longer.

“Fuck, Q,” she moans through gritted teeth.

She doesn’t have to open her eyes to know that Quinn is flashing her a cocky smirk, but she doesn’t care with how the white heat is starting to spread from the pit of her stomach through her entire body.

Her vision blurs with how hard her orgasm hits her. The waves of pleasure hit her hard and leave her completely in Quinn’s control as the blonde continues to drag it out. By the time her body finally collapses back onto the bed, she’s panting hard and she can feel beads of sweat rolling down her temples.

She can feel Quinn shift on the bed and by the time she opens her eyes, Quinn is tucked under the sheets and is leaning against the headboard holding a bottle of water. The air feels cold on her bare skin and she crawls under the sheets too, looking at Quinn from the other end of the bed and leaning on her hand as she studies how hot Quinn looks with sex hair and a sated smile.

“So that’s why college girls experiment,” Quinn exhales, leaning back into the pillows.

“And thank God they do,” Santana quipped.

“You know, it was fun, and I always wondered what it would be like to be with a woman; but, uh, I don’t know, I think for me it was more of a one-time thing.” 

“Look, you don’t have to worry. I’m not gonna show up at your house with a U-Haul,” Santana counters as casually as she can muster, hiding behind her humor in an attempt to avoid setting off Quinn’s gay panic. She calms down a little bit when Quinn gives a small laugh.

“So what happens next?” Quinn asks, picking up a water bottle from the nightstand.

“Well, you could walk out first.” She focuses on Quinn’s lips as she takes a sip from the water bottle. “Or we could make it a two-time thing.” Quinn drops the water bottle back onto the night stand and beckons her over with one finger, a playful smirk dancing on her lips.

Santana knew that even if it ended up only being a two-time thing, one night with Quinn is worth it.

~!~!~!~

Santana wakes up shortly after day break and it takes a moment to gain her bearings and realize that she's still in the hotel room rather than her bedroom at her parents' house. Blonde hair tickles her face and she smiles fondly at Quinn's sleeping form on the bed beside her. Santana rolls to the side and extracts the room service menu from the nightstand drawer. She orders them some chocolate chip pancakes and bacon before cuddling back into Quinn while she waits for the food to arrive.

There's a rap on the door and Santana bolts out of the bed, pulling a sweatshirt and a pair of shorts onto her naked body before she answers the door. A boy about her age waits in the hallway with the breakfast tray and she flashes him a quick, flirty smile before taking the food out of his hands and closing the door in his face before he can pathetically try to hit on her. Quinn is sitting up against the headboard when Santana rounds the corner. She is still naked and she holds the sheets tightly in place across her chest.

Santana realizes that this is probably Quinn's first morning after experience; Puck and the wrinkly, old professor didn't exactly seem like the kind to take care of their girl the following morning. Seeing Quinn's blatant insecurity, Santana deposits the breakfast tray onto the desk in the corner and crawls up from the foot of the bed towards the blonde. Quinn tightens her grip on the sheets as Santana approaches. It doesn't deter Santana, however, and she climbs directly into Quinn's lap and leans down to kiss her. Quinn turns her head, leaving Santana to kiss the corner of her mouth instead.

"I haven't even brushed my teeth yet, Santana," Quinn explains quickly when she sees the hurt on Santana's face. She nudges Santana, who rolls off of her with a muted sigh.

Quinn's eyes dart around the room looking for clothes. None of them are within reach of her spot in the bed.

"It's not like I haven't seen you naked before, Q," Santana jokes, trying to lighten the mood. Quinn's eyes keep searching.

Santana finally gets tired of watching Quinn panic about being naked around her, despite the fact that Santana had her hands and mouth all over that body through multiple rounds last night. She gets up from the bed and rummages through the top layer of Quinn's duffel bag until she finds a Yale t-shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and clean underwear. Without a word, she hands them to Quinn and turns her back to Quinn purposefully so that the blonde can make her way into the bathroom. When she hears the bathroom door lock click into place, she turns around and surveys the empty room. Their clothes from the night before outline a trail to the bed. Quinn's lacy panties lay on the floor right next to bed on Santana's side and Santana is tempted to take them as a souvenir. Somehow she knows that Quinn wouldn't be amused by that and resigns herself to clean up the evidence of last night's foray instead. 

When Quinn emerges from the bathroom, her hair dripping onto her t-shirt from her cleansing shower, Santana notices how much more relaxed she seems to be. Santana is dressed in jeans and a loose fitting sweater. Her dress and heels from the wedding are shoved into her already overstuffed suitcase. Quinn's outfit is draped over the armchair neatly next to her duffel bag. Breakfast is laid out on the hastily made bed and Santana waits for Quinn to join her before digging into her own pancakes.

Quinn takes her time cutting her pancakes methodically, slicing through them in straight, neat lines before adding a tiny amount of syrup to the top. Santana just tears through hers like she hasn't seen food in days.

"Thanks for breakfast," Quinn says quietly as she finishes swallowing her first bite of lukewarm pancake. She purposefully avoids Santana's eyes as she says it.

Santana drops her fork onto the plate with a clatter. Quinn glances over curiously before averting her eyes quickly again.

"We really don't have to do this awkward crap. We hooked up, I rocked your world multiple times, and we're still friends."

Quinn's face immediately goes crimson at Santana's blunt words. Based on her reaction last night, Santana knew it wasn't gay panic. A few short hours ago, Quinn seemed quite pleased to have gotten her collegiate lesbian fling under her belt.

"Do you typically buy your one-night stands breakfast?" Quinn asks cynically, pushing her own plate away mostly uneaten.

"No, usually it's them bringing me breakfast. But you're pretty much a princess, so I figured I'd go hungry if I didn't take initiative."

Quinn frowns down at her food. Santana is just trying to play off the fact that Quinn is one of her closest friends and that she was doing everything in her power to give Quinn a good sexual, all-around experience for once in her life. She ordered breakfast because she wanted a couple more hours of peacefulness with Quinn inside this hotel room before the world ruins it. All of their friends are probably down in the lobby drinking coffee out of paper cups and eating stale muffins as they nurse their hangovers and mope in their regret. She doesn't want any of that with Quinn after having the best night of her life.

"Quinn, please don't do this," Santana pleads softly, her pride melting away. She has wanted Quinn for as long as she can remember, but it isn't satisfying in the way she thought it would be. And that is simple because Quinn regrets having crossed this line with her. At this point, all she can do is try to preserve the weak links of their crumbling friendship.

"Do what?" Quinn responds, crossing her arms defensively over her chest.

"You're shutting me out. You already said it's a one time thing. But we had fun and it doesn't have to be more than that. We don't even have to ever talk about it after we leave this hotel room if you don't want to. But I'm not going to let you sit here and wallow in regret over letting yourself have one night of carefree pleasure."

"I'm not wallowing," Quinn retorts. Santana raises a challenging eyebrow. "I'm not!"

"Well, you're refusing to even look at me. So yeah, you're wallowing and you're acting like you are completely ashamed of what happened between us."

Quinn bites down on her lip, but Santana doesn't back down. She stares at Quinn, willing her friend to talk about this.

"I'm not ashamed of sleeping with you, Santana." Quinn finally lets her eyes drift up to Santana's face. If Santana didn't know better, she would think that the look Quinn was more than just a confused friend.

Santana doesn't have a chance to respond before Quinn is moving swiftly across the bed, not even caring about knocking her plate of pancakes onto the comforter. Her lips collide with Santana's in a bruising kiss and Santana feels the air rush from her lungs before she reciprocates Quinn's forcefulness.

She's not sure if seconds or minutes or hours have passed when Quinn finally rocks back and puts a little bit of space between them. Santana can't pull her eyes off of Quinn's heaving chest and she can feel her own elevated heart pounding against her ribcage.

Before she can talk, Quinn is shoving her down against the bed. She knows better than to question Quinn; talking can only ruin whatever the hell this is. All she knows is that Quinn is making her feel wanted in a way nobody else ever has. And for now, that's all Santana needs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my awesome friend/beta quasi-suspect for her help on this.

At first, New York feels huge and overwhelming. Santana forces herself to venture out and learn the subway system as she looks for a job. She has the money that her mom gave her, but she’s trying to not blow all of that in the first week and New York is expensive.

 

Rachel and Kurt are letting her live rent-free for now, partially because she just showed up on their doorstep and demanded that they let her (and thankfully they are still kind of scared of her) and partially because they already understand how hard it is to make it in such a large place when coming from Lima. The temptation to walk down 5th Avenue and hit every store along the way is excruciating, but she knows that her bank account won’t last long even without buying amazing clothes.

 

As soon as they get back from the wedding, Rachel and Kurt get swallowed up with NYADA commitments and Santana is on her own for the most part. It is a lonely week back with her roommates gallivanting with their new college friends whenever they don’t have class, leaving her to fend for herself. She supposes that she could call Brittany, but things have felt awkward ever since she stood up to Sam and Brittany picked him. Santana knows it is for the best, but it still feels like she lost her best friend in the process. For the past few months, Quinn had been playing the role of Brittany’s replacement, but Santana hasn’t heard from her since they left the hotel room after the wedding.

 

She wanders through the streets between the businessmen rushing past as they go about their days and the tourists stopping to take pictures in front of the towering buildings. New York and an attempt at achieving fame seemed so far into the future when Santana was talking about it in the choir room. Now she’s here and she knows she should be doing something to make it. But as the wind whips, chilling her through her heavy winter coat, Santana ducks into a Starbucks. There is a “Now Hiring” sign on the front window and after she orders her drink, she asks for an application. The girl behind the counter looks down her nose at Santana before reaching under the counter and pulling out the application.

 

“Do you even know how to make a latte?” The girl asks, sneering at her as she wipes the counter.

 

Santana’s temper starts to flare immediately, but she tries her best to squash it down. She picks up her drink from the other barista and sits down at a small table to fill out the application. She knows she isn’t made to work long hours for minimum wage, but she figures everybody has to start somewhere. When she finishes, she slaps it on the counter in front of the girl.

 

“I can’t wait to work with you,” She says; flashing the girl a big, fake smile.

 

The girl behind the counter actually starts to laugh as she walks out and Santana forces herself to maintain her strut until she’s down the block. Her shoulders visibly shrink as she trudges back to the subway. This has been more than enough job hunting for one miserable February day.

 

Rachel and Kurt are at class when Santana gets back to the apartment, so Santana picks up her phone and scrolls through the contacts. She moves right past the majority of them, but her finger hesitates over Quinn’s name. After she got back to New York after Mr. Schue’s wedding, she left Quinn a message that has gone unreturned. Usually, Santana would be fine with that. Quinn gets busy with school and won’t talk to other people for days at a time and Santana sucks at returning messages anyway. But they never talked about what happened at the wedding and now Quinn wasn’t responding. Santana wants to just leave the situation alone and let Quinn contact her when she’s ready. But she’s upset and lonely (even though she wouldn’t actually admit that to anyone) and talking to her best friend would make her feel a little better.

 

She lets herself compose a text for Quinn, but she erases and rewrites it five times before her finger hovers over the send button.

 

Some bitch at Starbucks thinks I’m not qualified to serve people coffee. I can do a standing back tuck for fuck’s sake. How hard could it be?

 

Santana rereads the message. It’s simple and avoids anything complicated that Quinn might not want to talk about. She presses send and drops her phone to the coffee table while she waits for Quinn to respond.

 

Hours later, Quinn still hasn’t replied. Rachel texts her to say that she and Kurt are going out with friends and that Santana shouldn’t bother waiting up for them. Santana isn’t used to being the person that is left out from social events and she feels the tears sting the corners of her eyes before she wipes at them furiously.

 

Since the apartment is empty for the whole night, Santana decides to explore. Ever since she was little, she’s had a fascination with going through other people’s stuff. Her mom would force her to hold her hands together anytime they entered someone’s house to keep her tiny fingers from finding their way into drawers and pockets. At sleepovers, after everybody else was asleep, Santana would rifle through nightstands and closets. It was how she had so much dirt on pretty much everybody at school and it always kept her one step ahead of the game.

 

She starts in the kitchen, which, other than being obsessively organized, is boring. The living room unearths Rachel and Kurt’s combined DVD collection that ranges from musicals to romantic comedies with nothing in between. Kurt’s bedroom is a little more interesting with the bottle of lube and economy size box of Trojans in the nightstand and sickeningly sweet pile of love letters from Blaine that are buried in a shoebox under the bed.

 

Rachel is the most organized packrat Santana has ever encountered. She surveys the contents of each container and drawer before she tears them apart so that she can reassemble them neatly after her search. The closet and dresser drawers are filled with clothes that are New York acceptable. Under the bed, Santana finds a container labeled “Old Rachel.” Her mood immediately perks up and she yanks it from under the bed, pulling it into the middle of the room.

 

She opens the lid and finds it filled to the brim with everything that reminds her of the high school version of Rachel. Their senior yearbook is resting on top of Rachel’s reindeer sweater, which is folded neatly on top of a stack of cat calendars. There are ticket stubs labeled neatly with the significance of various dates with Finn and Jesse, a Playbill from their production of West Side Story, and a stack of notebooks that obviously served as Rachel’s diaries over the years amongst a million other little knick-knacks that obviously hold a lot of importance to Rachel.

 

When Santana gets bored of going through of Rachel’s things (though she has plenty of blackmail now that she has scanned the contents of her diary), she snoops through the small amount of stuff that is Brody’s. He has a duffel bag of clothes and the one nightstand is littered with cologne bottles and moisturizers. The drawer unearths a large wad of cash and a pager tucked in behind some condoms and a stack of cds. She makes a mental note of it before heading into the bathroom to catch anything she’s missed.

 

The cabinets and shelves are completely covered with hair products, facial cleansers, special moisturizers, and various primping tools. Santana rifles through them carelessly, looking for anything worthwhile. She’s about to flip off the light switch when she notices the nearly full trash can in the corner. From her experience in snooping, people always hide the best secrets in the trash.

 

She wades through the acne wipes and tissues, but strikes gold at the bottom of the bin. Wrapped in toilet paper is a pregnancy test with two distinct pink lines gleaming from its surface. Santana’s eyes go wide as she stares at it, her mind racing with the possibilities. There really is only one conclusion since she knows it’s not hers. 

 

Her chest tightens at what this means. It feels like yesterday that she sat on the edge of the bathtub and waited for her own results, praying incessantly that she wasn’t going to be carrying Quinn’s kid’s half-sibling. The relief of seeing a negative result came in a huge wave and she sobbed for an hour on the bathroom floor when she realized that Quinn hadn’t been as lucky.

 

The entire apartment is put back together exactly like it was before when Kurt, Rachel, and Brody stumble in sometime during the middle of the night. Santana lays on her air mattress in the corner with her eyes clenched tightly closed as she hears Rachel’s laughter. She wonders if Rachel was drinking while pregnant and her stomach turns over at the thought. It takes a long time for her to drift back into a fitful sleep.

 

The sight of a blizzard greets Santana when she finally wakes up on Thursday morning to Kurt and Adam giggling like schoolgirls in the kitchen. She glances at her phone and realizes they should be in class, which can only mean one thing: they’re snowed in.

 

Within two hours, she is on the verge of murdering the drama queens. Kurt and Adam think they are hilarious and keep doing the most ridiculous impersonations. It makes her want to tear her hair out, but it’s snowing too hard to make an escape out into the city. Rachel and Brody have been surprisingly absent. It’s a nice break from hearing every second of their sex life through the thin material of the privacy curtain.

 

Santana tries to hate Adam just due to his British accent and incredibly positive outlook on life, but it’s hard when he’s actually a pretty normal guy. She could do without the insane obsession with musicals and the impersonations that are way better than Trouty Mouth’s, but overall she rules Adam harmless. And since he’s actually a nice guy that makes Kurt more bearable, Santana plays the Blaine card.

 

Kurt tries to hush her as soon as she brings up Mr. Schue’s almost wedding, which just solidifies her suspicions that Kurt fooled around with Blaine when they were in Lima last week. Adam glances at Kurt while biting his lip. Santana knows the seed is planted at least and she has a lot of snow hours to make Kurt confess that he’s still drooling over the hair-gel king.

 

Rachel comes out of the bathroom in a tizzy that Santana is making snide remarks about her weight again. Santana rolls her eyes as Rachel has her diva fit. Kurt interjects before Santana has a chance to respond.

 

“Girls, girls, retract the claws, alright? NYADA cancelled all of the classes because of the snow so let’s just cozy up to our little movie marathon.” He glances purposefully at Santana. “Santana, did you go through our DVD collection?”

 

Santana doesn’t hesitate. Her choices are genius in order to confirm her theory about the stick she found in the bathroom.

 

“I sure did. Uh, Knocked Up; hilarity. Rosemary’s Baby. That’s obviously Lady Hummel’s. And, uh, She’s Having a Baby.”

 

Rachel immediately crosses her arms over her chest protectively and refuses to meet Santana’s eyes. 

 

“I don’t wanna watch any of those,” Rachel responds quickly.

 

Kurt comments, but Santana doesn’t pay him any attention. She watches Rachel carefully the whole time, noticing the tightness of her jaw as she grinds her teeth. 

 

“I’m not in the mood, okay? I’m not in the mood.” 

 

Santana watches Rachel’s cheeks redden. She almost feels bad for pushing Rachel’s buttons in the hopes of a reaction. But as Rachel obviously has no intention of dealing with whatever the hell is going on, Santana knows it’s for Rachel’s own good.

 

Kurt picks Moulin Rouge instead and Santana groans and mumbles under her breath about being trapped with the musical theatre queens for hours on end as they settle in to start the movie.

 

She’s seen Moulin Rouge before, not that she’d ever admit it to her friends, so she spends more time gazing over at the interactions between Adam and Kurt. Adam is cuddly and sickeningly sweet. He doesn’t even seem to notice the giant wall that Kurt has built between them as he leans stiffly against the back of the couch while Adam and Rachel both lean on him.

 

Rachel’s eyes are staring blankly in the direction of the television. She’s unfocused and Santana can almost see the gears turning in her head. The first hour of the movie drags on until Adam notices the tears slipping down Kurt’s cheeks. Santana calls him out on his shit because Kurt definitely doesn’t wear contacts and he’s totally crying over his ex in front of his new arm candy.

 

Kurt changes the subject as abruptly as possible and tries to escape to the kitchen before it gets worse. Santana jumps up from her seat, deciding to use the opportunity to address the heavy cloud lingering over the apartment: Brody.

 

“No, wait. Hold on. Sorry. Can we pause this for a second? Kurt, please sit down. I have something to say and I have tried to keep it to myself, but I will be silent no longer.”

 

Santana pauses until Kurt slides back onto the couch between Adam and Rachel.

 

“What is it?” asks Rachel as soon as she pauses the movie.

 

“That Brody character is a freaking psycho.” Kurt perks up immediately.

 

“Go on,” he prods.

 

“Here we go,” grumbles Rachel, crossing her legs and leaning back into the couch with a sigh.

 

“Listen, when I first met him, totally thought he was weird. He smelled all talcum-y like a Cabbage Patch Doll and then he said I wasn’t a real New Yorker until I had my first makeover and I was like ‘What does that even mean? Like who are you?’”

 

“C’mon, Brody is a sweetheart,” Adam interjects.

 

“That’s what I told myself. You know, I said ‘so what if he’s completely hairless and made out of plastic?’ I’m going to look past the fact that he probably has a disgusting porn star landing strip. I’m going to give Lars and the Real Boy one more chance, but then I found this.” Santana tosses down a wad of cash. “1200 dollars in cash.”

 

Rachel straightens up in her seat. “When did you find that?!” she asks incredulously, staring at the giant wad of cash.

 

“Last night when I was rooting through all the pockets and drawers in this apartment,” Santana replies with a shrug. Adam looks simultaneously appalled and bemused by her antics. Kurt and Rachel both look at her like they are seconds away from spontaneously combusting

 

“Wait -what?!” Rachel exclaims, her eyes growing large.

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Kurt adds, pausing to give her a chance to explain.

 

“Santana, you went through all of our stuff?” At this point Rachel just seems exasperated, like she knows she shouldn’t expect anything better from Santana given her high school actions. It stings Santana a bit, but she shrugs it off.

 

“Yeah, that’s a thing I do,” she replies nonchalantly.

 

“That’s completely unacceptable!” Kurt scolds, his cheeks growing crimson with the thought of what she might have found.

 

“Yeah, oh okay. I like how you guys pretend to be all accepting about everything, but when your friend suddenly shows up in your home, moves in, and goes through all your stuff, you’re offended?”

 

Rachel and Kurt look like they’re on the verge of completely losing their cool when Adam cuts in, pulling the conversation back to Brody.

 

“J-J-Just because he’s got a little money on him doesn’t mean he’s a psycho,” Adam defends. Santana gladly turns her head to look at him rather than her irate roommates.

 

“That’s what I thought, right? Who cares if he’s terrified of banks ‘cause if I were made of plastic, I’d be scared of a lot of things: open flames, barbeques. But then, I found this.”

 

Santana holds up the small black pager for all of them to see.

 

“What is that?” Kurt asks, his curiosity piqued.

 

“Is that a garage door opener?” Rachel guesses incorrectly.

 

“This is a pager, my friends. And there’s only one type of person in this world that carries cash and a pager. Your friend Brody is a drug dealer.” Santana drops the pager down next to the roll of bills, a smug look of triumph taking over her face as she sees realization appear on Kurt’s face and utter horror painted on Rachel’s.

 

They all scatter after Santana’s announcement, hiding in their corners of the apartment for a little while as they process the news. Santana is stuck with staying in the living room by herself since she doesn’t have her own curtain partition yet.

 

After awhile they all wander back into the same room, the boredom of being snowed in wearing down their resolve. Kurt suggests they finish the movie and it’s about the last thing in the world that Santana wants to do, so she resorts back to her diversion tactic: bringing up Brody.

 

As expected, Rachel immediately gets defensive about the fact that Brody still isn’t home and calls him to prove that he’s not being shady. The phone call doesn’t help Rachel’s case; rather, it does nothing but convinces Kurt wholeheartedly that Santana’s theory is, in fact, correct.

 

Due to Rachel’s obvious anguish over her missing boyfriend and possibly the positive pregnancy test, Santana gives in and watches the rest of the movie without complaint. As soon as the credits begin to scroll across the screen, Rachel jumps up and announces that she needs to get a good night’s sleep. She whips her curtain closed behind her without another word, but Santana can hear her fingers tapping against the keys of her laptop through the thin material.

 

A wave of jealousy washes over her as she wonders whom Rachel could possibly be talking to this late on a Wednesday night. It’s still pretty early in L.A., but Santana doesn’t think that Rachel and Mercedes were quite on the level of frantic messaging after everything that happened with the musical and the Troubletones. Santana knew it could really only be two people: Finn or Quinn. She hopes it isn’t Finn for selfish reasons because nobody wants to have to clean up that disaster again. But the idea that it could be Quinn sitting at her computer in a dorm room at Yale makes her stomach clench. Quinn still wasn’t responding to her own messages and the idea that she would reply to Berry in a heartbeat was kind of insulting.

 

Kurt and Adam wander off to Kurt’s bed, leaving Santana alone to set up her bed on the couch. She takes her time draping the sheet over the cushions and places her pillow at one end before turning off the lamp and curling into a ball on the lumpy couch under her sleeping bag. She listens as the pipes groan around her. She feels lonely in a way she had never experienced before. Even when people hated her in Lima, she always had Brittany there to soothe her, even when she thought Santana was wrong. She missed her best friend. Brittany had been the one person who was always there for her despite her downfalls. Even though the heartache had finally begun to really fade, it still really hurt to no longer have her closest friend.

 

Now all Santana has is the girl that drove her crazy in high school and the only person in Lima that managed to dress better than her. But as always, she’s finding ways to screw these friendships up too. Rachel is pissed at her for her lewd comments and jabs at Brody. Kurt is annoyed at her insistence of bringing up Blaine at every possible opportunity. Quinn stopped speaking to her as soon as she had flown back to New Haven, proving that she knew she regretted crossing that line with Santana. 

 

Santana lies on the couch for hours, beyond the point where Rachel’s tapping has subsided and Kurt and Adam’s giggling fades into sleep. The snow finally stops falling at some point and the sun is peeking through the thick clouds by the time Santana finally drifts off to sleep.

 

She keeps her pillow over her head while her roommates got ready and headed out into the snow for class a few short hours later. The last thing she wants to do was venture out into the cold on no sleep to job hunt, so as soon as everybody leaves, she rolls over and went back to sleep.

 

It is midday before Santana wakes up again. Feeling guilty about moping around, she forces herself to get dressed and head into Manhattan to apply for jobs. It’s discouraging as hell to walk into row after row of stores to hear that they aren’t hiring or to be condescendingly told that she isn’t even qualified to prepare overpriced coffee for minimum wage. The pace of New York is refreshing, however, and she sidesteps piles of dirty, gray snow as she weaves amongst the hordes of people in midtown. 

 

She’s jobless and practically friendless, but being lost in the crowd is refreshing. Nobody is glancing at her with disgust the way people often did in Lima. First it had been for her reputation as easy among the football boys at McKinley. Once the ad ran, it was for her “alternative” lifestyle. Her great fashion sense and feminine appearance didn’t help in a small town that didn’t like anybody that was even a little different.

 

Here in New York nobody even gives her a second glance. They also walk right past the two guys holding hands and strolling along immersed in one another. Nobody is bothered by the teenager with the bright blue hair on subway. Being different is okay here. And despite everything else going on lately, Santana is exhilarated by that.

 

Santana returns to the apartment still riding on the high of her realization that New York is where she belongs. Rachel is sitting on the couch and Santana shares her epiphany as she pulls over her heavy jacket and hangs it on the set of hooks next to the door. Rachel doesn’t even look up as she responds, obviously not caring about whatever is going on with Santana at the moment.

 

Santana returns to her typical defense mechanism and makes a jab at Brody. Rachel gets angry and is about to start in on her, but the image of Rachel confiding in Quinn miles away instead of her is enough to make Santana reel it in. This is her chance to find out what is really going on with Rachel.

 

“Okay, look, now that we’re alone I want to talk to you about what I found with your bathroom trash underneath the wadded up tissue paper, the used cotton swabs, and the soiled acne wipes. An item, which unless Lady Hummel has actually been a lady all of these years, could’ve only been yours.”

 

Rachel lets a flash of alarm seep through her features before she tries to swallow it gallantly. 

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rachel manages. She stares down at her lap with a locked jaw.

 

“Rachel,” Santana says as soothingly as possible. “You’re really not gonna tell me about the stick?”

 

The direct confrontation breaks something in Rachel. Her lip shakes as she tries to hold it together, but her voice is choked with tears as she turns towards Santana.

 

“You had no right.” She’s glaring at Santana as her eyes well up, threatening to spill over.

 

“Rachel, I’m your friend. You can trust me. Just tell me what’s going on.”

 

Rachel doesn’t need to speak. Her sobs start coming full force, her tiny body shaking with them. She falls into Santana’s arms, who strokes her back while her own mind is frantically trying to think of solutions.

 

“Oh, God. You’re gonna be okay. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.” The soothing words fall from her lips effortlessly as Rachel’s tears soak her shoulder.

 

Brody sees them huddled on the couch when he gets out of the shower. As soon as he’s dressed, he starts to walk over to see what’s wrong, but Santana shoots daggers at him until he gets the hint and decides that Cassie needs him at NYADA instead. He’s gone within minutes and Santana gets Rachel up from the couch and into her bed, tucking the covers in around her tightly as her friend continues to cry uncontrollably.

 

Santana has no idea what the next step is to solve the problem. She always was lucky with condoms and she never forgot to take her pill on time. Who would know what to do?

 

A minute into pacing next to Rachel’s bed, the obvious comes to her. Quinn has gone through this before. Quinn dealt with it entirely alone while everybody else was wrapped up in their own pathetic lives. She carried a baby at sixteen with nobody to depend on besides herself.

 

Santana runs into the living area to fish her cell phone out of her jacket pocket. She knows that Quinn won’t respond to her, but she needs Quinn to at least help Rachel. Quinn had to go through it alone and she is determined to not make the same mistake twice when it came to the well being of her friends.

 

Rachel is pregnant. She’s a mess and IDK how to help. I know you two are friends now and I thought you might be able to help her out.

 

Once the message is sent, she walks back towards Rachel’s living space, grabbing Rachel’s phone from the coffee table on her way. Rachel is curled in fetal position on the far side of the bed, her body still shaking with silent sobs. Santana climbs under the covers behind her and crawls forward until she settles in directly behind Rachel, draping a caring arm over Rachel’s waist.

 

It only takes ten minutes for Rachel’s phone to start ringing. Santana hands it to Rachel after she accepts the call for her.

 

“It’s just Quinn. I told her what’s going on,” Santana explains, moving to leave Rachel alone in the bed. Rachel reaches out for her, silently asking her to stay. She settles back in behind Rachel as the brunette puts the phone up to her ear and finally addresses Quinn, who has been waiting patiently on the line.

 

Santana’s head is on Rachel’s pillow and it’s close enough to the phone that she catches snippets of Quinn’s voice flowing through the earpiece. Her chest hurts at hearing its soothing tone directly at Rachel when she would have been happy with even one simple text message.

 

Quinn talks to Rachel for over an hour, flipping back and forth between comforting Rachel and giving her advice and instructions. Santana feels exhausted and warm pressed against Rachel’s back. The bed is so comfortable after spending every night sleeping on the old couch and Santana feels her eyes getting heavy.

 

Right as she drifts off, Rachel sits up abruptly and rolls towards her. Santana peeks an eye open to see Rachel holding the phone out to her.

 

“She would like to speak with you,” Rachel says. When Santana doesn’t move, she pushes the phone against her hand until Santana grasps it.

 

“Uh, hello?” Santana greets, her cheeks flushing with how stupid she knows she sounds. She rubs her eyes with her free hand, willing her body to focus.

 

“She needs to see an actual doctor for a blood test in order to confirm the pregnancy. Try to get her in to see one this week. Have her use NYADA’s health services records to get her insurance information if she needs rather than going through her dads. In the meantime, make sure she’s eating well and takes care of herself. If she’s not, then you better take care of her. And, San?”

 

She pauses, waiting for Santana to reply.

 

“Yeah?” Her voice comes out barely louder than a whisper. She repeats Quinn’s words over in her head in an attempt to memorize all of the given instructions. The last thing she wants to do is screw something up.

 

“Don’t you dare talk to her about her options without her bringing it up. And if she does, you just sit there and listen. Don’t give her any opinions. Don’t offer to take her to the clinic. Just let her talk and be there for her. Do you understand?”

 

“Yeah,” Santana says clearly, trying to assure Quinn that she gets it.

 

“Good. Text me if she needs something. Bye.”

 

Before Santana can even get another word in, the phone line goes dead.

Santana sighs and drops the phone onto Rachel’s bed. The only thing she could do now is try to be there for Rachel because now she knows for certain that Quinn is definitely avoiding her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can thank Quasi-suspect for this update coming so soon. She’s been super motivating and you can thank her awesome beta skills for this chapter turning out as well as it did.

The next three days were hell. Kurt and Adam were in a weird place after finally talking about Kurt’s lingering feelings for Blaine. But Santana didn’t even have time to analyze that disaster. To say Rachel is hardly functioning would be an understatement. She didn’t want the boys to know, so Santana had to convince Kurt that Rachel was just PMSing harder than usual. 

Rachel had called Brody and told him that she seemed to have something contagious and asked him to stay at his friend’s place for a few days while she recovered. He agreed only after Santana snapped at him through the phone to keep him from stopping by to take care of her.

She’s following Quinn’s instructions to the best of her ability. Rachel was pretty much refusing to get out of bed, so Santana delivers her food into the bedroom a few times a day, holding the spoon out and forcing Rachel to take bites like a child. When Rachel falls asleep, she calls and pretends to be Rachel so that she could get information from health services and set up a doctor’s appointment.

On the rare occasion that Rachel even bothers to sit up, Santana sits next to her in silence. She doesn’t bother trying to make small talk because Rachel won’t respond anyway. Quinn calls periodically and Rachel will mumble short sentences into the phone during the conversation, before hanging up and falling silent again.

Santana has no urge to question Rachel on what she plans to do about the pregnancy, so it’s not hard to keep her word to Quinn. She is, however, incredibly curious as to who the father is. 

The foreplay that happened on stage at Mr. Schue’s reception between Rachel and Finn had been palpable and, frankly, nauseating. They looked more grown up now, but somehow as soon as they were within fifteen feet of one another again, Rachel was, once again, staring up at him like he was some sort of precious gem. Santana focused more on the fact that Quinn had clung to her as they slow danced, but she would bet everything in her bank account that Berry had slept with Finn that night.

On the morning of the appointment, Santana forces Rachel into the shower and she sits on the toilet talking constantly and peeking her head around the curtain every few minutes to make sure Rachel is actually washing and isn’t trying to drown herself in there. It’s the first time since she moved in that Santana hasn’t heard Rachel doing vocal exercises while bathing.

When Rachel turns the shower off, Santana heads back into the bedroom to pick out Rachel’s clothes and lays them out neatly on the comforter. She’s surprised to hear the blow dryer come to life in the bathroom, signaling that Rachel is actually pulling herself together for this endeavor. When she emerges half an hour later with her makeup looking flawless as well, Santana realizes that she is a much better actress than anybody has given her credit for. Looking at the girl standing in front of her, she doesn’t see the slightest trace of the tiny figure that hasn’t gotten out of bed in three days. Rachel’s show smile is in place and she walks over to the clothes Santana had put out for her and starts to get dressed.  
They are quiet as they sit next to one another on the subway on the way to the appointment. Rachel is wearing her headphones and stares straight ahead as the train rumbles down the tracks, stopping every couple of minutes to exchange passengers. She’s silent and eerily still, which makes Santana more nervous than calm.

When they get to the office, Rachel fills out the paperwork on a clipboard while Santana tries to busy herself with a magazine. It’s futile and she doesn’t absorb anything on the glossy pages as she flips through. Her eyes kept flitting to her right where Rachel is taking her time filling out the forms. 

Ten minutes after Rachel gives the girl at the desk her insurance information, a nurse opens the door and calls out her name. Santana jumps to her feet, but Rachel steps in front of her.

“I can do this by myself, Santana,” Rachel says rather dismissively. She doesn’t look directly at Santana when she says it, but she sighs and walks towards where the nurse is holding the door open for her. Santana just stands there in stunned silence until the nurse gives her a pity-filled, sad smile and closes the door behind Rachel’s retreating back.

When Rachel comes back through the door again, Santana is immediately back on her feet. She’s scared to speak and find out what’s going to happen from here. The loft isn’t big enough for a baby, but she refuses to let Rachel give up everything and return to Lima just to raise a kid. The idea of Rachel getting kicked out of NYADA overtakes her. Somehow, she’s become very protective of a girl that she used to regularly order the football boys to throw slushies at. 

“False alarm. Thank God. I’m so happy. I’m so glad this is all over with.” Santana lets Rachel fall into her embrace. “Thank you for taking me here today.” 

Santana nods slightly, acknowledging Rachel’s gratitude. They pull away and Santana feels some of the anxiousness drain from her limbs. The past three days have been completely exhausting.

“Alright, I’m gonna go to class,” Rachel announces.

“Whoa, hey,” Santana interrupts, causing Rachel to freeze for a moment. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say about this?”

“Well the doctor gave me the all-clear. What else is there?”

Santana is completely stunned by Rachel’s nonchalance. Three hours earlier, Rachel could barely bathe herself and now she is acting like none of it had occurred.

“Rachel, you can’t just blow past this like nothing ever happened. This is a wake up call. This is an opportunity for you to take a hard look at the choices that you’re making, where your life is heading. Starting with Donkey Face.”

Rachel sighs, obviously fed up with Santana’s obsession with Brody. She shakes her head and glares at Santana for a quick moment before she’s storming out of the waiting room, leaving Santana standing in a room of expectant mothers.

Santana lets her go. It’s been emotional enough for her over these past few days and she can’t even imagine what is going on in Rachel’s mind. She heads out of the office and takes off down the sidewalk in the opposite direction of the subway station so there’s no chance of running into Rachel awkwardly on the platform. 

It’s dark out by the time Santana returns to the loft and she can hear Rachel’s voice carrying from behind her curtain. She eavesdrops as she hangs up her coat and pulls off her boots, leaving them sloppily by the door.

“It was just a scare. Everything is absolutely fine.”

Santana tiptoes around in the living room as she listens intently.

“Brody is coming back over tonight and everything is going to be back to normal.”

Quinn is the only person that knows about Rachel’s pregnancy scare besides Santana. She figures Rachel is filling Quinn in on the relieving news. Ignoring the golden rule of the privacy curtain, Santana throws it aside as she marches into Rachel’s partition. Rachel spins around, a look of annoyance taking over her features as she realizes it’s Santana.

“I need to talk to Quinn,” Santana states, holding her hand out for the phone. Rachel just stares at her.

“Do you mind? This is my private phone call,” Rachel retorts, turning away from Santana again with a swish of her long hair.

Santana strides towards her and tries to grab the phone from her grip.

“Just let me talk to Quinn for a minute and then she’s all yours,” Santana demands. Rachel yanks the phone out of her grip.

“Quinn has to go study anyway. She said she’ll call you sometime soon, Santana.”

Santana is pissed, but she knows there’s no chance Quinn is going to talk to her right now. She storms out of Rachel’s area and back into the living room. When she collapses onto the couch, she can hear Rachel saying her hushed goodbye to Quinn.

She sees piles of Brody’s crap all over the table and the living room as she surveys the area. Rachel is blatantly ignoring her advice by the looks of it and this just riles Santana up even more. Why does Rachel not see that she actually cares about her?

As soon as Rachel steps out from behind the curtain, her phone call with Quinn completed, Santana launches into her attack. Rachel defends Brody with all of her might, just as Santana figured she would. Rachel is almost as bad as Quinn at allowing men to define who she was. For someone as strong-willed and motivated as Rachel, it is sickening, really, to see how she’d let some shady guy take away from her focus on making it on Broadway.

“Look, at this point it’s less about him than it is about you,” Santana says in a desperate attempt to make Rachel see what she’s really doing here. “I went to school with Rachel Berry, not the soggy mess of a woman that stands before me today going back and forth between your flop high school ex and that terrifying waiter with a pager. You need to stop and focus, Berry.”

Rachel doesn’t even deny that she’s still tangled up with Finn on top of whatever the deal with Brody is. She bites her lip as she glares at Santana. Deep down, she must know that Santana isn’t wrong. Santana can see that Rachel’s resolve is slowly cracking beneath the surface.

“I think you’re wrong about him,” she manages and it’s obvious that she’s trying to convince herself as much as she is Santana.

“My psychic Mexican third eye is never wrong? Am I wrong about you?” Santana challenges, folding her arms over her chest as she stares directly into Rachel’s eyes. Rachel doesn’t respond and she stares at Santana for only a moment longer before she’s taking off and fleeing the apartment, grabbing her coat quickly from the hook. 

Brody’s voice carries from the bathroom where he’s belting out a song while showering. As soon as the door slams behind Rachel, Santana sneaks in and grabs his pager from the pocket of his discarded jeans. She copies down the recent numbers on a piece of scrap paper before shoving it hastily back amongst his belongings.

After her roommates are asleep, Santana gets out her laptop and goes to work investigating the new information she collected earlier. It only takes a little while before she has Brody linked to a bunch of women in Manhattan, including Rachel’s dance teacher at NYADA.

The next morning, Santana overhears Rachel and Brody talking about their schedules and she hears that Brody will be teaching a dance class in the early afternoon while Kurt and Rachel are in music theory. She takes the subway into Manhattan and walks in amongst the throngs of NYADA students. Nobody points out that she’s not actually a student here as she looks for what room Brody’s class is in.

She finds him scolding a large group of upperclassmen girls. They all seem too enamored with him to really care that he’s being kind of a dick to them. Santana leans against the doorframe and watches as the girls hang on his every word. She rolls her eyes as one of them turn bright red under his gaze.

She launches into him in front of his class. When he tells them to take five, they look away respectfully but they hover around, obviously eavesdropping on the conversation and gossiping behind the shield of their hands.

Santana, as much as she hates to admit it, has picked up the Rachel Berry tradition of getting her point across through song. NYADA is a school based on such ridiculous dramatics, Santana figures that a performance is probably the perfect way to get through Brody’s thick skull.

It’s obvious by the time that she finishes her number that Brody still doesn’t believe that she can do any actual damage beyond talking a big game. When he gives her a cocky goodbye as she struts out of the studio, she knows it’s time to really step up her game to make him disappear.

Santana has all the information she needs, but she still has to formulate a plan on how to use it. She leaves NYADA’s campus as she thinks about what needs to be done. Quinn had always been the ringleader, but Santana had always been the mastermind. She needs the help of someone else to pull off this plan and Quinn would be her number one choice to make sure that it goes off flawlessly. But as she still hasn’t heard from Quinn, she’s figuring that Quinn isn’t going to play into her scheme this time.

She wanders down from NYADA and sees a sign for the Coyote Ugly saloon. After the few days she’s had, a strong drink seems to be exactly what she needs. Behind the bar are two girls. One of them has to be 5’9” with straw colored hair that falls in a curtain past the girl’s shoulders, while the other is petite, probably around Santana’s height with dark brown hair that she has pulled back in a ponytail. They both look college age and Santana takes an appreciative glance at their asses as they stack glasses behind the bar.

“What can I get for you?” the blonde asks, tossing a cocktail napkin down on the shiny surface in front of Santana. She is caught off-guard; her eyes had still been glued to the brunette’s ass. 

“Uh, rum and Diet coke,” Santana says, sitting up a little straighter and trying hard to sound nonchalant.

“Can I see your ID, please,” the girl says with a playful smile. Santana fumbles around in her purse for a minute before extracting the license that says Rosario Cruz on it. Last time Quinn was standing beside her, flashing her Hawaiian license at the bartender with a cocky grin. 

The bartender scans it briefly, smirks, then hands it back to Santana, who shoves it back into her bag quickly. The girl walks a few feet down the bar and mixes the drink. While she does, Santana scans the room. It’s still early and the place is practically empty, save for a group of girls at a table in a far corner and a redhead reading a book at the other end of the bar. Before Santana can really check out the redhead, the bartender drops the glass down in front of her.

“So how old are you really, Rosario?” The girl asks with a wink. Santana feels her face grow warm and she takes a hurried sip of her drink. It’s really strong and she fights the urge to cough against the burn of the rum going down her throat.

“Uh, 25?” Santana replies, the inflection of her voice making it sound like a question.

“Good try, Short Stack,” the blonde says with a hearty laugh. “I’m Leigh. And you’re not a day over 20 at best.”

“So why’d you make the drink then?” Santana challenges, taking another sip. This one goes down smoother. 

“Because you looked like someone that needed it and your ID is surprisingly passable. What brings you into a bar at 4 in the afternoon, Ros-”

“It’s Santana, actually,” Santana quips. She holds out her hand and Leigh wipes hers on a towel hanging from her belt loop before taking it and shaking it firmly, letting her fingers linger on Santana’s for a moment.

“Well, it’s a pleasure, Santana,” Leigh says genuinely. A group of people walk into the bar, rubbing their cold hands together and pulling off winter hats. “I need to earn some money, but just shout if you need anything.”

Before Santana can respond, Leigh is greeting the new people that are settling onto bar stools a few feet away. She watches as the girl grabs at bottles, scoops ice, and tops off cocktails with juice in an effortless rhythm. It makes bartending look like an art and Santana finds herself following the movement of Leigh’s hands as they shake up a cocktail before she pours the blue concoction into a martini glass and garnishes it with an orange slice.

Leigh stops over by Santana a couple more times over the course of the evening, refilling her drinks or offering a couple of minutes of small talk before another patron calls for her. By eight, Santana knows that she needs to head back to the loft and figure out what she’s going to do about Brody. She waves Leigh over, who approaches with a smile.

“What can I do for you, Short Stack?” she chides.

“I need to pay my tab, I’ve got to get going,” she says, but even as the words leave her mouth, she hopes that this isn’t the last time she sees Leigh.

“Well, your drinks are on me this time. We just had a girl quit last night and I’m looking for a new bartender if you know anybody that might be interested.” The twinkle in her eye makes Santana nervous.

“I’ve been looking for a job since I move to the City a few weeks ago,” she blurts out. “But I don’t know anything about bartending,” she admits.

“You seem like a smart enough girl. I’m sure you’ll pick it up in no time. I’ll see you tomorrow around 3ish?”

“Yeah, I’ll be here,” Santana replies, trying to hold back her excitement at finally finding work.

“See you then, Santana.” Leigh winks at her and walks back down to the other end of the bar to refill someone’s drink. Santana pulls on her jacket and throws a crumpled twenty dollar bill onto the bar before heading back out onto the street.

Santana waltzes into the apartment still riding the buzz from the rum and from landing herself a job. Kurt and Rachel are both in the living room so she starts talking as she walks in.

“Guess who just got a job tending bar at the Coyote Ugly Saloon down on 1st Street? Hopefully it bodes better for me than any of the has-beens that starred in that movie.” Santana turns around from hanging her coat up to see her somber-looking roommates.

“Santana, if you’d just take a seat, please, and join us for a little family loft conversation.”

She walks over to where they are gathered and tries to read Kurt’s expression, but he’s staring down at his hands.

“Creepy. But okay...”

“We just got off the phone with Brody. Did you confront him at NYADA with a Paula Abdul song?” Kurt asks, the appallment evident in his tone.

Before Santana can even answer, Rachel cuts her off.

“You can’t just march on in there and like act all crazy, okay? We go to school there!”

Santana knows that they are expecting her to apologize and grovel for their forgiveness. But that’s not how this is going to go down. The only reason she was at NYADA in the first place was to have Rachel’s back and make sure that Brody doesn’t fuck up her future.

“That was the best performance that place has seen in years,” Santana says, rolling her eyes and avoiding letting them in on her real motive for going to NYADA. Rachel was mad enough at her earlier over her comments about Brody.

“We want you to move out,” Kurt blurts out. He seems relieved to have that thought off of his chest. It makes Santana’s ache in return.

“You’re joking,” she responds in disbelief. They were supposed to be her family away from Lima and now they were telling her that they didn’t want her here at all.

“We’re not.” Rachel is firm in her statement. Santana believes it from her, but she really thought that Kurt was on her side in all of this. She decides that she’s going to hold onto every shred of dignity that she can rather than beg for them to reconsider the situation.

“Olsen twins, let me tell you something. I’ve known you both for years and I don’t like either of you ninety percent of the time. In fact, your wide-eyed, keen painting of life makes my teeth hurt and my breasts ache with rage.” She pauses, sucking in a deep breath before continuing. “But you know what? I have love for you. You’re my family and I haven’t lied to you in months. I’m smarter about other people than the both of you. You have to trust me.” 

It’s as close as Santana is willing to get to grovelling with them. She’s letting them in, if only a little bit. And it’s true; she does love them like family after everything they’ve been together since she joined glee club during sophomore year.

“Santana, you’re making Brody feel uncomfortable, okay? And he was here first so you either lay off of it or you move out.” Rachel doesn’t even seem swayed the slightest at Santana’s admission of her love for them. Santana decides that she’s sticking to her guns and she’s not going to argue with them on this. If they want her to go, then she’ll go.

“Fine. That’s fine. You know what? I don’t mind going. I ran into Lena Dunham at Barney’s and she told me that I could crash with her if I ever needed to. So that’s cool, ‘cause she has two Golden Globes. Oh, and you know what? Here’s another thing: I have what Access Hollywood calls street smarts. I’m right about plastic man.”

By the time she finishes, she has grabbed her suitcase and the bedding off of the couch and is already halfway out the door. She can hear both Rachel and Kurt mumble under her breath, but she’s trying too hard to hold the tears in to focus on what they’re saying.

Santana pulls out her cell phone when she reaches the lobby of the building. She didn’t really meet Lena Dunham. She hasn’t even stepped foot into Barney’s since she’s been in New York because she’s been too afraid to spend the money. Besides the airfare and a small amount of groceries, Santana hasn’t even touched the money that her mother gave her for graduation.

She thanks the heavens for 4G as she Googles the area to find a place to spend the night. She would have been able to get a room at the Red Rooster in Lima for like 40 bucks a night, but she finally finds a place in Brooklyn that doesn’t look too shady that isn’t completely overpriced. She hops onto the subway with her suitcase and follows the map to the hotel.

It’s nothing fancy and it doesn’t have anything more than a queen-sized bed and a tiny bathroom. The TV only picks up four channels and the wallpaper is peeling, but it’s clean and she can make do roughing it for a few days until she comes up with a better solution to the problem at hand. She waits until she’s in her pajamas and tucked under the unfamiliar covers before she lets the tears finally release from where she had trapped them in her eyes.

She had done everything she could have for Rachel since she had found out about the pregnancy. All she had done was try to protect her from what she knows is a bad situation. And instead of her efforts being rewarded, she is alone in a rundown hotel in Brooklyn. Her so-called friends had let her just walk out to live on the streets for all they knew. Her best friend had fucked her and then hung her out to dry. Her ex-girlfriend had moved onto a guy as soon as she had told her that long distance was too hard.

Santana knew that she could be overbearing and incredibly crass. But she also would die for her friends time and time again if she needed to. She was left on her own with nobody caring where she was spending the night or wondering if she was okay. She wanted to just give up on all of them and move on with her life separate from it all. Yet she loved too deeply to just let Rachel continue to be used by Brody when he was obviously a lying sack of shit. Kurt would never realize how things still needed to be resolved with Blaine if he ever wanted to move on. Quinn would follow the path that had been outlined for her through years of brainwashing and manipulation. Brittany would be left behind. They needed her, even if they didn’t want her.

Once the sobs finally faded away, she pulled herself up and opened a new note on her phone. First, she’d prove to Rachel that she had been right all along. Everything else would fall into place from there.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It takes two days for her to really work through the details of her plan. The hours at the bar are long and tiring and she’s living on takeout and energy drinks, but Santana knows that it is going to work.

Finn was by no means her first choice. Quinn would be able to take Brody down in all of ten seconds, but as Quinn still had made no attempt to contact her, Santana was forced to go with her second option. 

He flew in as soon as he could get a plane out of Ohio. Santana is there to meet him at the terminal in Kennedy. He doesn’t really question Santana’s motives as she explains the logistics of the plan to him as they ride the subway to the hotel where Brody is going to be expecting his next client. 

Santana repeats the plan a few times to make sure that it gets through his thick skull before she leads him down to the hotel room. Finn heads into the bathroom to wait and Santana sits on the edge of the bed, her heart racing as she waits in the dark. Brody shows up exactly one minute late and flips on the light as he addresses her by the fake name she gave him when she set up the appointment.

The look of utter astonishment on Brody’s face is priceless and Santana wishes she had bugged the room to record this moment. When Finn turns the corner out of the bathroom, Brody’s eyes grow wide. Santana bids them goodbye, leaving Finn to make sure that Brody is out of the apartment by morning.

While Santana is training at the bar the next afternoon, her phone goes off repeatedly in her pocket. The constant vibration is distracting while she’s trying to listen to Leigh explain how everything works on the complicated cash register screen. She turns it off completely and tucks it into her back pocket until her break. When Leigh tells her to take fifteen minutes and Santana drops her towel down next to the sink before she walks out from behind the bar and heads to the back room by the kitchen.

She turns the phone on to see five missed calls and four text messages from Kurt. She hits his name and puts the phone to her ear as it starts to ring. It takes a moment before she hears Kurt connect the call on the other end.

“Ms. Lopez,” he greets formally.

“Why the fuck are you calling me obsessively? I’m at my job and can’t be around at your beckon call, especially considering the fact that you made it perfectly clear that you wanted me out of your apartment.”

“Oh, you know that was Rachel. And speaking of Rachel, she’s been bawling her eyes out all day because Brody has mysteriously packed all of his belongings and has left without offering any explanation. This turn of events reeks of you, Santana.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Maybe he’s decided to move in with one of the middle-aged women that he’s been sleeping with for cash.”

Kurt’s gasp is clearly audible through the phone.

“He isn’t!” he squeals as he processes this new piece of gossip.

“Sure is. Even has been nailing your dance instructor on the side according to the info I swiped from his pager.”

“We can’t tell Rachel,” Kurt insists hurriedly.

“Why the hell not? Don’t you think she deserves to know she’s been sleeping with a guy that has been whoring himself out all over Manhattan?”

“I’ll explain more later. Can we meet up tonight?”

“I’m finishing up training at 9. I’ll meet you at that diner near the subway station at your usual stop by 10?”

“I’ll be there.”

Kurt is waiting in a booth near the front of the diner when Santana walks in, still feeling grimy and sore from the long hours of training. The waitress comes over and takes her order quickly as she settles down across from him.

“So?” he asks impatiently, playing with the handle on the mug of his tea.

“What?” Santana says, accepting her steaming mug of coffee from the waitress and immediately dumping a couple of sugar packets into it.

“Aren’t you going to explain exactly why Brody felt the need to pack up in the middle of the night and leave the apartment while being accessorized with an incredibly swollen black eye?”

“He didn’t take my warning at NYADA seriously, so I made sure he knew exactly who he was messing with,” Santana replies with a shrug. 

“Wait, so you managed to leave a mark like that on a guy triple your size?” Kurt asks incredulously.

“I’m not in the business of breaking nails when it’s unnecessary. Finn flew in and obviously kicked his ass on the behalf of his ex-fiancée, whom, I might add, he is still pathetically in love with.”

“You got Finn to fly all the way to New York to do your bidding?” She could tell Kurt seems kind of impressed by the lengths she went to. She gives him a short nod in response. “You’re a freaking psycho, Santana. But I have to admit it, you were right about Brody.”

Santana knows it’s as close as she’ll get to an apology from Kurt over kicking her out. Her food arrives and she dives in hungrily instead of responding to Kurt.

“Look, let me work on Rachel. But with Brody gone, I’m sure she’ll be glad to have you back in the loft.”

“Who says I want to move back in with you queens?” Santana snorts indignantly, even though it’s exactly what she wanted in this situation.

“I’ll call you tomorrow after I talk to Rachel,” Kurt says, dropping a five dollar bill on the table to pay his part of the check. He pulls his jacket on around him and gives her a lame little wave before ducking out onto the dark street alone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to Quasi-suspect for being an awesome beta and spending forever letting me rant about my head canons as I wrote this. She’s the bomb dot com.

Santana is halfway through her shift at the bar when Kurt slips in and takes a seat on her end of the bar. She rolls her eyes when she sees him glance around the place with mild appreciation (she figures based on its history from the movie) and judgmental disgust (from the tacky decor). 

She takes her time cleaning the glasses in a sink of soapy hot water beneath the surface of the bar. As soon as they’re done being rinsed of suds, she dips them into the antibacterial wash and hangs them on the rack to dry, focusing on the task and ignoring her so-called customer for as long as possible. Once she’s out of dirty glasses, she dries her hand on a dish towel hanging on the edge of the sink and saunters over to where he is sitting impatiently.

“What can I get for you, sir?” she asks in a faux-professional tone, giving him an annoyed smirk.

“A cosmo would be lovely,” he responds cheerfully.

“Oh, yeah? With what ID are you planning to prove that you’re not still in middle school?” Santana taunts, leaning forward on the bar. “What are you doing here, Kurt?”

“I wanted to know when your shift finished so that we could make arrangements to continue our discussion from the other night,” he replies in a businesslike tone.

“And you couldn’t have done that through a text message?” she points out. He gulps awkwardly.

“Well, would it be okay if Rachel joins us for this discussion?” he spits out quickly, glancing down the bar where two girls have just erupted in raucous laughter.

“I want to hear what you have to say before you get her involved,” Santana growls. “And I’m trying to work, so unless you can prove that you can actually grow facial hair AND have legitimate identification, I suggest you get out of the bar.”

Kurt scoffs at her insult and straightens his ascot with indignation as he picks up his man purse and slings it over his shoulder. 

“Text me when you get off work so that we can talk.” He marches out of the bar without another word.

Santana sends Kurt a message on her fifteen minute break to tell him where to meet her when her shift is over. She’s anything but excited for it, yet she finds herself grabbing her belongings from the break room and heading for the subway as soon as Leigh comes in to relieve her.

She chose a generic Starbucks in midtown for them to meet up at. There was no way in hell that she was dragging her ass to Bushwick for this conversation and she really didn’t want Kurt to see the neighborhood that was her home for the time being. Midtown was a safe, neutral option and gave her the opportunity to head straight for a multitude of bars as soon as this little meeting was over.

Kurt, still dressed in his ridiculous ascot and flamingo pink shirt, is sitting on the edge of his seat with his legs primly crossed and is clutching a Venti Starbucks paper cup as he messes around on his phone. He doesn’t notice her enter, so she waits in line and orders a black coffee without even lifting the sunglasses from her eyes. 

He notices her as she strides purposefully in his direction and he shoves his phone into his bag quickly and hops up to greet her. She ducks out of the awkward cheek kiss and sits down in the vacant seat across from him. He perches on the seat again and leans towards her.

“How have you been, Santana?” he tries cordially, playing with the lid of his coffee.

An incredulous chuckle is the only sound she manages to make. Kurt audibly gulps and his eyes dart around the busy coffee shop as he tries to figure out how to respond to that.

She’s furious and beyond hurt about how things have gone down since she moved to New York. She left Lima thinking that at least the City wouldn’t be so scary if she had her friends there with her. But she was an idiot to think that Rachel would ever see beyond her own selfish motives to be there when Santana needed her to be. Everything she had done since she had arrived was try to be a good friend, even if she couldn’t manage to control her need to comment on everything. She gave up three whole days to cater to Rachel’s every need during the pregnancy scare. And all she got in return was a request to leave without even having a window of opportunity to find a suitable living arrangement.

“I talked to Rachel and we both agreed that it was unfair of us to act so rashly and we would like you to come back to living with us in the apartment,” Kurt blurts out, trying to get straight to the point instead. It sounds stiff and rehearsed like he had said it into the mirror a dozen times before he came to meet her.

“Is that supposed to be apology? Why the hell would you think that I want to go back to living with people that obviously hate and don’t respect me even a little bit?”

“Santana, you know that I’m sorry for letting you walk out with nowhere to stay. At the very least, I should have given you a chance to find a suitable living arrangement. Secondly, I told you last week that I let Rachel control the situation against my better judgment and I regret that. I liked having you around, even with all your crude remarks and incredibly sloppy tendencies, and I would like you to come back if you want to.”

“Oh, that’s just great, Kurt. You sided with Berry and threw me out on my ass, but I should move back in so that you can continue to follow all of her commands? What happens the next time she decides I need to go? I ain’t gonna put up with a repeat performance.”

“Rachel has agreed to draw up a roommate agreement that would outline all of the expectations that each roommate must adhere to, including herself. We can both have input on it as well.”

“And I’m supposed to trust that Rachel will stick to some dumb list of rules when she’s in the middle of one of her freaking temper tantrums?” Santana scoffs.

“Would you at least be willing to sit down and discuss it with her?” Kurt asks, draining off the end of his cup and dropping it onto the little table between them.

Her immediate thoughts go to maintaining her pride and telling both Kurt and Rachel to go fuck themselves. With all of the crap she’s gone through in the past year, her pride is about the only thing she’s been able to hold onto and giving in to even hear them out feels like she’d be surrendering that too.

But she cares about them. At this point, she knows she shouldn’t. Yet she finds herself wanting to be genuine friends with two people she could hardly stand for the majority of high school. Making friends had never been easy for her with her inability to keep her opinions to herself, but she’d take a bullet for anybody that she actually cared about. Unfortunately Kurt and Rachel were still on that list. So she decides it wouldn’t hurt to at least hear what Rachel has to say about it.

“Yeah. I’ll see you both tomorrow at 8 at the diner. Don’t keep me waiting.” She gets up and drops the aviators back over her eyes before she strides out of the coffee shop, her heeled boots clacking authoritatively on the tile as she does so.

Santana has the next day off, so after she leaves Kurt behind, she heads for a bar. It’s dinnertime and businessmen stroll in and loosen their ties as they fill in the stools around her. She orders a drink and the young male bartender doesn’t even think to ask for ID when she’s one of the few women in the place. She also asks for a menu, figuring that she might as well kill two birds with one stone.

Her plate of wings has just been dropped in front of her when there’s a tap on her shoulder. Santana turns to find a dark-haired man that looks to be almost 30.

“Excuse me, but what is a beautiful girl like yourself doing in here by yourself on a Wednesday night?” 

“What does it look like?” Santana responds, gesturing dramatically to the plate of wings and the beer sitting on the bar in front of her.

“Aww, I’d take such a pretty girl out for a proper meal. You deserve more than crappy bar food.”

“No, thanks.” Her response is short and she spins back around on her stool and picks up the first wing, tearing the meat off with her teeth without any regard for trying to eat like a lady. She can feel the man and his buddies still standing closely behind her. The burn of their eyes on her makes her annoyed, but she just tries to focus on swallowing her food so that she can pay the tab and get out of here.

If someone had approached Rachel like that, she would have been over there throwing a drink in his face before he could even begin to think about asking for her name. But would Rachel have done it for her if she was here right now? With all of her diva fits over ridiculous crap in glee club, Santana could hardly recall an instance where Rachel put her own selfishness aside for the good of someone else.

The thought was depressing. Kurt and Rachel both had always been focused on their own success and usually didn’t care who they hurt along the way as long as it meant that they were stars. It was for that reason, that Santana had joined Mercedes in the Troubletones during senior year. She had been so sick of the whole world revolving around Rachel Berry and her imminent stardom.

So why was it that when she decided to take the plunge after her own dreams that she ended up back in the presence of the person that constantly overshadowed her and undermined her goals? Sure, she had called Rachel insufferable more times than she could remember, but she never once put down Rachel’s talent or showed any doubt that she thought Rachel was going to be the next big thing on Broadway.

Santana knows that New York is where she was meant to end up. Everything about this place makes her feel alive. But she’s still lonely. Maybe trying to find a best friend in Rachel Berry was her first mistake. 

The guy gives up when she continues to ignore him and she slaps some cash on the surface of the bar next to her dirty napkin before she makes her escape completely. The idea of returning to her dingy hotel room to sit in the dark alone is repulsive, but it’s not like she has any friends here.

She takes the subway back to Brooklyn and collapses on the old mattress before the tears start falling. All she wishes is that she had one person that would notice that she isn’t okay. Rachel and Kurt are self-absorbed, but at least the apartment felt like a place she could call home. And as much as she doesn’t want to give Rachel the upper hand by moving back in, Santana also knows that she can’t continue to live in a hotel for $100 a night while hiding from her problems.

It’s with that on her mind that she wipes her eyes, re-applies her makeup, and starts packing up her belongings.

She knocks on the door of the loft carrying Rachel’s comforter and Kurt’s pillow that she had swiped angrily as she left last week. It’s weird to be knocking when it had been her home, and she shifts her weight between the balls of her feet as she waits for someone to answer the door.

She’s greeted by a grinning Adam when the door slides open, but his smile fades quickly when he sees who it is. He looks nervous and uncomfortable, but she just rolls her eyes and pushes past him, her suitcase bouncing behind her.

Kurt and Rachel are sitting at the table with a couple of people Santana doesn’t recognize, though judging by their perfect posture and fake smiles, they are NYADA students. They look up at her over their glasses of wine and she forces herself to stand tall as she stares at the scene in front of her. These are all people that Rachel and Kurt actually want to spend time with while she is sitting in a rundown hotel somewhere that they’re not even aware of.

“I just thought we could talk tonight, but it’s fine if you’re busy.” She turns to go, figuring she’ll just go back to the hotel since she had already paid for the night anyway. She wills the tears to not sting her eyes.

“No, wait!” Rachel calls out and Santana pauses but doesn’t turn around.

“Adam, why don’t you and the others head over to Callbacks and we’ll meet up with you sometime later on. I’ll text you,” Kurt says from behind her. Adam nods from where he’s still standing near the loft’s door. The two girls and guy that were at the table with Rachel and Kurt shuffle back in their chairs and pull on their coats, following Adam out into the hallway.

When the door slides shut with an affirming thud, Santana turns around slowly. Kurt is on his feet while Rachel is still sitting at the table, running her fingers along the edge of her wine glass.

“You don’t have to ruin your night for me,” Santana says, still gripping the handle of her suitcase. “I’ll just see you tomorrow night like we had originally planned. Is 8 o’clock still good for the two of you?”

“Santana, just stay. We can talk now since you came all the way out to Bushwick,” Rachel says hurriedly. She finishes off the couple of gulps that are left in her wine glass and she scurries into her bedroom.

Kurt and Santana stand awkwardly in the kitchen in her absence. When Rachel marches back into the room, she’s clutching a pink notepad and a pen. She sits down at her spot at the table and looks at the other two pointedly until they also take seats. Rachel uncaps her pen and looks up expectantly.

“Now, I know that we’ve had our differences and I allowed my insecurities from the way I was bullied in high school to seep into my view of your recent actions. However, I know that you were just trying to be a good friend and even though I don’t understand your ridiculous vendetta against my boyfriend, I’m sorry for the way I’ve acted.”

Santana rolls her eyes at Rachel’s over-the-top need for a proper, well-articulated apology. It sounds more like a monologue from a play than a sincere, emotional apology for being a complete ass. Though Santana really doesn’t expect anything different from Rachel; she thinks the entire world is a stage.

“What Rachel is trying to say is that we were shitty friends when you were just trying to be a good one in your twisted Lima Heights way that we’ll probably never understand. But glee club is family, which makes us all family.”

“Well in my family, we don’t throw people out on the streets and then don’t bother to check up on them for almost a week,” Santana spits back.

“It was completely messed up and uncalled for and I’d be willing to sacrifice my larger partition space for your forgiveness,” Kurt responds.

“Only if I get an extra five minutes of hot water in the morning and there are no Broadway songs being belted until at least 9 a.m.”

“Eight-thirty!” Rachel bargains. “I need a proper warm-up before I leave for class.”

“Ten to nine and not a minute sooner.”

Rachel holds her hand out like she’s making an important transaction.

“Oh we’re not done here, Barbra.”

Rachel and Kurt never end up making it out of the apartment because as soon as they agree on the rules (which ended up being four pages long), Santana makes Kurt start moving his stuff into the area now designated as the third fake partition. His area becomes hers, which ends up just being an empty space with her suitcase sitting in the middle. It’s barren and depressing and she’s going to have to spend some of her mom’s college fund money to buy an actual bed to make it liveable. But at least it feels like home.

With the rules set in place, things in the loft start to fall into a routine. Kurt and Rachel swallow her chiding with little complaint, she manages to deal with the insane amount of singing at all hours of the day. 

Kurt still won’t let Santana tell Rachel the real reason why Brody has fallen off the face of the earth. She’s tempted at every turn to spill the beans so that Rachel will get her head out of the clouds. Sure, the Funny Girl audition is important and she’s already an uptight crazy person over it, but her pining over the lost gigolo is a lot for Santana to stomach. She is always blunt and honest and nobody ever trusts her with secrets because she has literally no interest in actually keeping them.

So keeping her mouth locked about Brody is possibly the biggest test of friendship Santana has ever experienced. When she’s left with Rachel wrapped only in a towel in the middle of the bathroom, she chooses to both swallow her obvious sexual frustration (if she’s finding Rachel Berry hot, then it has been way too long since she’s been laid) and her need to tell Rachel the truth about her useless ex-boyfriend that Rachel still hasn’t let go of. It’s with all of that in mind that she switches the subject to roommate bonding. 

Kurt is an easy target for her to get Rachel’s mind away from all of the other crap going on in her life. They stay up and giggle together on Rachel’s bed while watching old glee videos until they’re sure that Kurt is sound asleep in order to pull their prank. 

It’s the closest Santana has felt to another girl since before her and Brittany took their friendship to a confusing, emotional level. The magnitude of how much she likes being Rachel’s friend actually scares her. Her only relatively normal friendship with another girl ended with Quinn moaning beneath her in a hotel room. She doesn’t know how to act around girls that are supposed to be her friends and she doesn’t think she is attracted to Rachel in that way, but she still feels awkward.

Rachel is naturally a cuddly person. When Kurt wakes up before they have a chance to go through with their prank, Rachel leaps to her side and wraps her arm around Santana’s waist without a second thought. Santana lets her hand rest on Rachel’s lower back as she internally freaks out about whether this is something that friends do. Rachel doesn’t seem bothered and the three of them end up squeezing into Kurt’s bed for a sleepover, Rachel claiming the middle spot, but keeping herself pressed against Santana’s back for the entire night.

Santana is the first out of bed in the morning, untangling herself from Rachel’s leech-like grip. She starts the coffee, and sits at the table popping grapes in her mouth as she waits for it to brew. Kurt appears as soon as she starts to pour herself a cup, so she pulls another mug from the cabinet and pours him one as well. He thanks her as she plops it down in front of him on the table and they sit in peaceful quiet while they sip their coffee.

The urge to talk finally takes her over when her coffee is nearly gone and she starts feeling the caffeine working its way into her system. She glances over at Kurt, who is flipping through the pages of Vogue, pausing on each page and looking at the models with a scrutinous eye.

“When did Rachel and Quinn get so close anyway?” she asks, fiddling with the handle of her mug. Kurt stops flipping pages and glances at her.

“What makes you so curious about it?” She avoids his glance.

“It just seems strange that they never hung out in high school at all, but now they seem to be the best of friends.”

It’s something that has been weighing on her mind since she saw how quickly Quinn jumped to Rachel’s aid with the pregnancy scare. Santana had been Quinn’s first friend when she moved to Lima in the summer going into freshman year. They were both shoo-ins for the Cheerios and Santana felt a pull towards her in a way she hadn’t felt with anybody else before. Quinn was instantly the new head bitch, causing Santana to fall in rank, but for some reason it never bothered her as long as she could still be friends with Quinn. But apparently being an annoying know-it-all diva had more appeal to Quinn than her supposed best friend whom she used for a quick couple of orgasms.

“They would text or e-mail on occasion last semester. But ever since we got back from Mr. Schue’s wedding, they seem to be much friendlier. I don’t remember them actually hanging out at all while we were in Lima, so it’s all a little strange, but Rachel seems happier than I’ve ever seen her at finally becoming Quinn Fabray’s friend.”

Kurt is obviously still completely oblivious about what happened with Rachel shortly after their return from the wedding. Santana would have liked to never have to rely on Quinn to deal with that crisis, but she was the best option; apparently all it had done was drive Quinn and Rachel together. Quinn didn’t need Santana as her best friend if she had Rachel there to answer every phone call. She could avoid whatever changed in that hotel room for as long as she wanted because she still had a friend to confide in.

What if Quinn had confided in Rachel about what happened in that hotel room? Santana immediately wonders if Quinn knows about Rachel kicking her out. She’s already ashamed enough of how everything happened, but the idea that Quinn knows everything going on in her life without talking to her makes her stomach turn over. Is Quinn the reason that Rachel had a change of heart? Did she tell Rachel why she’s such a disaster of a person ever since they got back from the wedding? Does Rachel know why Quinn hasn’t been talking to her at all? Her mind is racing with all of the possibilities surrounding Rachel’s newfound friendship with Quinn. Even the thought that Rachel might know what happened that night freaks her out. Does Rachel think that she just sleeps with any girl that she gets too friendly with? 

She’s still in the middle of internal freak-out when Rachel strolls into the kitchen, stretching her arms above her head. Santana studies her, looking for any changes that she might not have noticed before. But she looks like the same Rachel that showed up in Lima when Santana was performing in Grease. There are no tell-tale signs that Quinn has shared any private conversations with her.

Santana dashes off to take the first shower and is grateful for the hot water to help her clear her head. It takes all of her designated twenty minutes for her to calm herself down enough to face the rest of the day. But she does know one thing: she needs to talk to Quinn. There has been enough of this avoidance crap and Santana can’t take it anymore. If it means driving up to Connecticut so that they can slap it out Thanksgiving style, then that’s what will happen.

Throughout the rest of the day, Santana is scheming to figure out how to get in touch with Quinn. She obviously doesn’t care about messages from Santana’s phone, so that is definitely not a viable option. Physically going to New Haven is an absolute last resort. She could always ask Rachel to help her, but as she doesn’t know how much Rachel is aware of in the situation, she doesn’t really want to deal with answering five million questions just to get Quinn to pick up her phone call.

Leigh can tell that she’s distracted through their whole shift that night and after the bar clears following last call, she pushes Santana into a bar stool and pours them each a shot of tequila. She grabs the salt shaker from under the bar and quickly cuts up a fresh lime, dropping the slices into a glass and dropping it between them.

“What’s on your mind, Short Stack?” Leigh asks, running her tongue along the back of her hand and sprinkling the salt onto it. Santana tries to not stare, but Leigh does everything with such grace and flat-out sexiness that it is hard not to.

“It’s nothing important,” Santana replies quickly. She doesn’t want to drop all of her teenage problems on this hot, confident older woman.

“Everything is important when you’re barely over eighteen and your life is still a fucked up mess. Hit me with it. I’m a good listener.” She pushes the salt shaker at Santana, who mimics Leigh’s previous action so that the salt is on her hand.

Leigh holds up her glass and they clink them together before they simultaneously lick their salt, down the shot, and grab a lime wedge. Santana lets the burn of the tequilalinger down her throat with only the stinging acidity of the lime trying to soothe it. Leigh looks at her expectantly to fill her in on whatever is on her mind.

“I slept with my best friend at this stupid wedding in our hometown a few weeks and now she won’t return any of my phone calls or messages,” Santana mumbles, her cheeks burning with how petty and ridiculous she knows she sounds.

“And does your best friend know that you obviously had feelings for her before any of this went down?” Santana nearly chokes on the rind of her lime wedge.

“Wh-what?” she stutters. Leigh just waits patiently for Santana to get her bearings. “Quinn is a straight girl that just used her l-lesbian friend to get her rocks off because there were no decent eligible bachelors at the trainwreck of a wedding.” Santana tries to make it sound like she actually believes the words coming out of her own mouth. It’s hard because she really doesn’t want to believe that Quinn could be that downright cruel after everything they’ve been through together. If it had just been that night, maybe she could write it off as the truth. But Quinn kissed her the following morning and didn’t stop until Santana was moaning beneath her.

“You don’t believe that. She’s probably as screwed up over this as you are. If she won’t answer your calls directly, find another way to call her that will force her to answer.” She leans over the bar and pats Santana’s arm reassuringly. “Now get up, Short Stack, we’ve got a lot of cleaning up to do.”

So maybe Quinn is actively avoiding Santana, but Santana is crafty when it comes to getting what she wants. When she hears the shower start running the next morning, she waits until Kurt begins his exfoliating routine (signaled by the end of his vocal warmups) before she sneaks into the bathroom and grabs his phone from where it’s nestled on top of a fluffy, white towel.

She scrolls through Kurt’s contacts and taps on Quinn’s number, holding her breath as it starts to ring. Quinn answers after the second short ring. It stings more than it should, but Kurt and Quinn are hardly even friends, yet she answers his call without the slightest hesitation.

“Hi, Kurt. Is everything okay? Is Rachel alright?” she asks in one hurried breath.

“Berry is freaking peachy. Can you take one guess as to who might not be alright though?” She lets her emotions seep into the biting, sarcastic remark unintentionally.

“Santana.” Her voice drops its worried tone and Santana can feel Quinn’s walls rebuild, even over the phone line.

“I’m not okay, Q. You’ll jump through hoops to help Rachel, but you can’t even bother to text me back once in weeks. Do you see how fucked up that is? We are supposed to be friends, Quinn, and you’ve been a really shitty one since you used me for your collegiate lesbian experience.”

“School has been really busy and-” Quinn starts, but Santana cuts her off.

“Save it. You have time to call Rachel three times a day and you manage to answer the phone the second Kurt’s name appears on your screen. You owe me a lot more explanation than a bullshit excuse.”

“Look, my next class starts in five minutes, but I’m coming to New York next weekend. We can talk then, okay?”

She’s deflecting the conversation again, but it’s useless to try and make her talk over the phone. Santana has no choice but to hope that she keeps her promise at this point.

“Okay,” I respond weakly. It’s a better outcome than it could have been.

“I’ll see you then,” she says quickly before disconnecting the call.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta, quasi-suspect, is amazing.

Friday nights are Santana’s favorite at Coyote Ugly. The music is pumped up loud, the lights are dimmed down low, and the room fills with young New York singles looking to get drunk and hook up. There’s a thrill from the small-time performances among the catcalls of the drunken patrons and there’s routine in the way she can make the liquids mix together so that they result in delicious concoctions. 

Working on Fridays means getting to work with Leigh and the smaller brunette, Ashten, whom she had seen on the first afternoon she walked into the bar. They’re a good team and they bring in great tips between their mixing skills (although Santana is still nowhere near the level of Leigh’s speed or Ashten’s precision), their awesome performances, and the fact that they are all incredibly hot. 

The shift is easily her most exhausting, but there is something exhilarating about the busy Friday night. Santana’s feet ache by the time she follows Leigh out and watches as the older girl locks up and tucks the keys into her jacket pocket. They walk together to the subway station in silence, both of them exhausted from a long night on the floor. Santana checks her phone for the first time since before her shift and sees exactly zero messages.

Not only is it past 3 in the morning, but she has no idea what will be going on when she gets back to the apartment. Quinn would probably be here by now, but it’s after three in the morning so there’s a good chance that she’s already all cuddled up in Rachel’s bed with her. 

“You okay, small fry?” Leigh asks with concern, placing her hand on Santana’s forearm as they wait on the platform for the train.

She nods absentmindedly and slips the phone back into her pocket. 

The train comes rumbling to a stop in front of them and she loads after Leigh, falling into the vacant seat beside her. Leigh’s gaze keeps flitting over to her like a concerned parent.

“Look, I’m fine, okay?” Leigh gives her a skeptical look.

“This is about the best friend, isn’t it?” Santana knows her face gives her away. “Have you talked to her yet?”

“She’s in my apartment right now visiting my roommate. I have no idea what I’m walking into when I get home as she hardly even said two sentences to me on the phone,” Santana confides.

“At least she gave you two sentences. That’s called progress, my dear.” The train grinds to a halt and Leigh hops up. “This is my stop and I know you’re off tomorrow, but text me if you need to get out of there for a while and we can grab coffee or something.” She gives Santana’s arm a little squeeze before she leaps through the closing doors and disappears onto the platform as the train starts moving again.

It’s another twenty minutes before Santana is finally trudging up the stairs at her stop. She keeps a lookout as she walks briskly down the dark streets of Bushwick to the apartment. It’s not the best neighborhood to be wandering around by herself in the middle of the night, but she reaches the building without incident and she takes a deep breath before she slides open the door to the apartment.

As soon as the door is cracked open, the sounds of high-pitched peals of laughter hit her in the face. The more the door slides open, the more the scene in front of her unfolds. Quinn is clutching a bottle of water, not unlike the one she sipped after Santana made her come undone in that hotel room, and she’s smiling like a goon at Rachel. Rachel’s cheeks are flushed and Santana catches a glimpse of the empty wine bottle on the coffee table next to two glasses. That explains the volume of the laughter.

She closes the door behind her and pulls off her shoes one by one, rubbing each foot tenderly as she does so. She pads barefoot towards her partition, moving along the back of the bookcase. Rachel squints in her direction and Santana just keeps moving, avoiding her gaze. She really doesn’t want first interaction with Quinn since the wedding to happen while Quinn is wasted.

“Santana?” Rachel calls out, sounding confused. Santana slips behind her partition and pulls the curtain completely closed.

The curtain doesn’t drown out the sounds from the living area well. Santana fumbles on her newly assembled nightstand for her iPod, untangling the wire of her headphones and shoving the buds into her ears. The music drowns out the conversation that she really doesn’t want to overhear and she finally drifts off to sleep.

It’s past noon when Santana finally drags herself out of bed. The apartment is silent and her body relaxes at the prospect of not having to deal with anybody for the time being.

She’s stunned when she yanks back her curtain to see Quinn curled up in her spot of the couch with a heavy textbook propped in her lap. Quinn looks up from her book, pulls the reading glasses off her face and drops them onto the pages of the book.

“What are you doing here?” Santana asks stupidly. After over a month of practically no contact, this is her genius opening statement.

“You knew I was going to be here this weekend,” Quinn says shortly, moving the book onto the coffee table. She untucks her legs from beneath her and lets them stretch out on the couch.

“Why aren’t you with Rachel?” Santana questions. She wasn’t expecting to wake up to Quinn all by herself in the empty apartment.

“Rachel and Kurt have some sort of schmoozing event to attend at NYADA. Rachel said to remind you that she told you this over a week ago and that it is marked clearly on the apartment calendar attached to the side of the fridge that you continually forget to update.” Her words sound mechanical, like relaying a ridiculous message from Rachel is the only way she knows how to communicate with Santana anymore.

Quinn’s gaze feels nervous and unsure and Santana wishes that she could have at least brushed her hair and changed her clothes before facing Quinn this morning. Quinn, on the other hand, looks put together as always. She’s wearing skinny jeans and an off-the-shoulder blue sweater that is completely unlike anything she would have worn in high school. Apparently some of her friends at Yale have managed to pull her away from her beloved dress and cardigan ensembles. Her hair is shorter than it was at the wedding; the ends are cut artfully choppy. Santana feels mesmerized by her and it throws her off her game.

When Quinn just continues to look at her and doesn’t have anything else to say, Santana figures she needs to be the one to force them to deal with their shit.

“I need to take a shower, but then we’re going out for brunch.” She leaves it as a statement so that Quinn doesn’t really have an opportunity to back out of it. Quinn gives her a weak nod and picks up her glasses again and turning back to her textbook.

Santana takes her time showering and getting ready. She makes a point of bringing her clothes with her into the bathroom to avoid walking across the apartment in front of Quinn in just her towel. It’s not until she knows that she looks like her typical spectacular self with her hair and makeup done that she steps back into Quinn’s view.

She knows she doesn’t imagine Quinn’s sweeping gaze from her ankles to her eyes. The whole ordeal is quick, maybe two seconds at most, but Santana knows that Quinn definitely just checked her out. It makes her feel kind of smug that despite her lack of communication since the wedding, she definitely has something that Quinn wants. Her thoughts drift off to the possibility that Quinn has interests in it progressing past a three-time thing, but she squashes them as soon as they come. After all, they haven’t even dealt with the repercussions that resulted from the first time they ended up in bed together.

“You ready?” she asks and Quinn shrugs noncommittally, though she stands up and heads towards the door anyway. Santana waits patiently as she puts on her shoes (a pair of Ugg boots that Santana thought she’d never catch Quinn in) and wraps herself up in a heavy, dark green peacoat. She grabs her own leather jacket and scarf from the hook and shrugs into them before leading the way out of the apartment.

She decides on a place within walking distance and they walk next to one another with a comfortable amount of space between them. Santana keeps her hands buried deep in her pockets and her head bent in the gusts of cold air. She stops in front of the tiny place and holds the door open for Quinn to enter. Quinn sweeps by her, thanking her quickly as she does so.

It’s beyond the normal brunch rush so they have no problem getting a table quickly. Santana slides into her chair and orders a Bloody Mary before the waitress even drops the menus down in front of them. Quinn raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. She orders an orange juice and the girl scampers away without even checking Santana’s ID.

“Rachel tells me you’re working at a bar dancing for tips,” Quinn tries as she scans the menu. “How is that going for you?”

“You’re in New York and this is the first time we’ve really spoken and you want to discuss my freaking job?” Her anger and frustration has been pent up with Quinn for weeks. Just sitting across from her is painful enough right now.

Quinn glances up, but averts her eyes quickly. Santana just sighs.

“My job is fine. I get to look hot and I bring in some good cash, thanks to these.” She grabs her chest pointedly. 

The waitress walks over and Santana drops her hands quickly and reaches for her napkin, dropping it into her lap. Her Bloody Mary is deposited in front of her and she takes a gulp while Quinn rambles off a complex order and ends it with a sweet smile at the waitress.

“Coffee, whole wheat toast, and a double order of bacon,” Santana says, pushing her unopened menu towards the waitress. Quinn looks at her with a condescending glance. “Please,” Santana adds, feeling like an ashamed child who forgot her manners.

“Toast and bacon? Seriously?” 

“What? I live with Berry, who thinks dead animals still have feelings, and Lady Hummel, who cares more about his dress size than most anorexic models. Bacon is a rare commodity. At least I don’t order my ridiculous breakfast in a proper French accent.”

“Sorry that I possess some culture,” Quinn bites back.

“Why didn’t you just go to NYADA with Berry today?” Santana asks, unable to control her curiosity.

“It was her event; I didn’t want to impose,” Quinn responds and it seems like a reasonable enough excuse to Santana. “Plus, I did promise you that we’d have some time to talk so I figured that it would just make it easier on everybody.”

“So you’re actually going to give me a reason for why you haven’t bothered to answer any of my messages?” Santana perks up and takes a swig from her drink. She figured it’d be a lot harder to pull it out of Quinn.

“Can’t we just enjoy our breakfast right now? We’re in the middle of a public place,” Quinn pleads, her words hissing through her clenched teeth.

“Why does it matter? It’s not like anybody in here cares that we slept together, multiple times, and seemed to actually enjoy ourselves until you fell off the end of the earth as soon as you left me in that hotel room.” She’s struggling to keep her voice down, because starting a huge fight in the middle of the restaurant is just a recipe for Quinn completely shutting down.

“Please, not here, Santana. Can’t we just catch up?” 

The waitress drops off their plates; Quinn’s plate looks like a work of art with its little sprigs of herbs around her fancy omelette. She cuts it up into tiny bite-size pieces while Santana just piles her bacon between her slices of toast to make a sandwich and takes a huge bite, moaning at the flavor of the crispy bacon.

Quinn gives her a disgusted grimace but chooses not to comment. Santana, not wanting to make small talk, focuses on devouring her sandwich and draining her Bloody Mary. Her plate is clean before Quinn has even consumed a quarter of her omelette.

Santana sits with her arms folded across her chest as Quinn takes her time with her dainty little bites. Her eyes wander around the restaurant as she tries to avoid taking in Quinn. Everything about being around Quinn again makes her body feel prickly and alert. Her fingers itch to reach across the little table and touch the soft skin of Quinn’s hands. Quinn wants her to act like nothing has changed; like they can just joke around the way they did while sitting in that church pew.

As soon as Quinn’s last bite disappears, Santana flags down the waitress and gets the bill. She throws a ten down onto the table and looks at Quinn expectantly.

“Whoa, you practically drag me out of the apartment and insist I eat with you and you’re not going to even pick up the check?” Quinn asks incredulously.

With a roll of her eyes, Santana throws a crumpled twenty on the table and hops up from her chair. She can feel Quinn following closely behind her as they weave through the clusters of tiny tables until they’re back on the sidewalk. 

“So what’s your plan now that you’re settled in here?” Quinn asks as she walks briskly to keep up with Santana’s quick strides.

“Why do you even care, Q?”

They reach the door of the apartment building and Santana shoves her key into the lock roughly, turning it until it clicks. She yanks on the handle and holds it open as Quinn sweeps past her and starts up the staircase. Santana follows her wordlessly until they’re sliding open the door and walking back into the empty apartment.

The sound of the door slamming back into place echoes through the room. Quinn wanders into the living room and discards her pea coat on top of her duffel bag while Santana takes her time unzipping her jacket and hanging it on her hook by the door.

“Why won’t you just talk to me?” Santana asks in exasperation. “My god, I’d actually prefer your normal method of being brutally honest until you slap me across the face.”

“I’ve been trying to talk to you all morning,” Quinn replies quietly, pulls her hands from her pockets to fiddle with a loose thread on the hem of her sweater.

“Sorry, but I don’t really care to catch up on a month of small talk until I know why the hell I was ignored for that month in the first place.”

“School has been insane all semester and I’m really busy with my secret society. You know how it gets.”

“Seriously, Quinn, save the bullshit for some dumb oaf that’s willing to eat it up. This is just insulting.”

Santana clenches her fists at her sides, her knuckles turning white. Her level of frustration with Quinn has reached a new high. But she’s willing to be a bigger person than Quinn; she is only going to slap if Quinn slaps first.

“If you want to be Finn Hudson’s replacement to the world’s most annoying midget, be my guest. But don’t be surprised when she picks him over you the moment that he gets his giant head out of his ass.”

“It’s not like I’m in love with Rachel,” Quinn says through gritted teeth.

“You ran to her aid pretty quickly when you heard about that topless scene,” challenges Santana.

“Yeah, well you could take a leaf out of my book on how to be a supportive friend.” Santana can’t contain the laughter that bubbles up from her chest.

“Really? Really? You think that you are a good friend? Where the fuck have you been for the past month when I needed you? I lived in a hotel for a week when your new favorite person threw me out on my ass. Don’t you think I could have used a friend?”

“Well, you shouldn’t have interfered in Rachel’s relationship. She was happy with Brody and your personal vendetta against him destroyed that. If I didn’t know you were completely into girls now, I’d think you wanted to steal him like you did all of my boyfriends in high school. When are you going to grow up from this petty shit, Santana?”

Santana steps towards Quinn until their noses are mere inches apart and she can feel Quinn’s hot breath on her cheeks.

“Brody is a male prostitute! Maybe you should check your sources before you climb up onto your high horse.” She glares at Quinn with disdain. “Just because I’m not the warm and fuzzy friend does not mean that I don’t fucking care.”

She waits for the slap, but it never comes. Her jaw aches from how tightly it’s clenched while she sets her stare hard on Quinn. What she wasn’t expecting, however, is the shove that Quinn delivers directly to her chest. Her breath is forced out of her as she stumbles a few paces backwards.

“What the actual fuck, Q?”

“Just shut up for once, will you?”

Her lips are on Santana’s, forcing Santana to effectively swallow the rest of her argument. It feels completely different than the first kiss inside of the hotel room all those weeks ago; this one is filled with demanding urgency and emotion instead of tender exploration. Quinn commands it with the way her fists curl into the fabric of Santana’s shirt and she leaves her breathless with hard, pressing kisses.

Santana is stumbling back again, but this time Quinn is clinging to her hips and she guides her clumsily around the edge of the coffee table. She falls rather ungracefully onto her back into the cushions of the couch and Quinn tumbles down on top of her, not wanting to leave her lips for even a second. She’s effectively pinned down under the weight of Quinn, but she kisses the blonde back with all of her pent up anger and frustration of the last month.

Quinn raises herself just enough that she can push Santana’s shirt up and she palms Santana’s breast through her bra, groaning into Santana’s mouth as she feels the nipple harden under her hand. Santana squirms under the touch unabashedly and arches her back so that she’s pressing up into Quinn, desperate for even the slightest bit of relief.

For once, Quinn doesn’t seem to want to drag her along and she yanks at the button of Santana’s jeans until it pops and pulls the zipper down. Santana moves as much as she can despite still being trapped under Quinn’s weight, but she shimmies her jeans down over her ass and Quinn helps push them down to her ankles. She kicks them off in the same instant that Quinn’s hand disappears into her underwear.

She groans at the first slightest amount of contact, which is accented with a drive of Quinn’s hips down into her. Her body is already on edge from the lack of intimacy since being in that hotel room and she bites down on her lip as she tries to delay the explosion that’s already beginning to build rapidly in her core.

Quinn’s mouth finds hers again and she kisses the girl greedily. Santana lets her swallow her moans as Quinn’s fingers move deftly against her. It hardly takes five minutes before the white heat spreads through her limbs as she begins to shake beneath Quinn. Quinn pulls her through her release, milking it until Santana literally has to push her hand away because it becomes too much to handle. 

As soon as Santana regains her bearings, she tries to push up so that she can switch positions with Quinn. Quinn hesitates and bites down on her lower lip as she glances towards the clock. when she realizes what time it is, she climbs off of Santana completely and puts a couple feet of space between them.

“Rachel and Kurt are supposed to be home soon,” she comments as she grabs her purse and fishes out her compact. She sets to work reapplying her lip gloss and she tries to use her fingers to tame her hair.

“We can take this to my bedroom,” Santana suggests from her spot on the couch. Her shirt is still awkwardly pushed up and her jeans hang off of the end cushion. She feels completely at ease with the situation (but maybe that’s just that she finally had a decent orgasm from something other than her vibrator). Quinn, on the other hand, looks frantic.

“First of all, you have a curtain that does not contain any sort of noise from my understanding based on Rachel’s whining about Kurt and Adam’s personal life. Secondly, I am not ditching the afternoon with Rachel to do that,” she says pointedly.

Quinn can’t even call it what it is. Is it just sex? Is it more than that? Whatever it is, Quinn is refusing to acknowledge that it’s something that she has actually been taking part in. She says it like it’s something to be ashamed of; like Santana is a dirty little secret that should only be discussed in the locked pages of her diary. It’s frustrating, to say the least, but Santana tries to just brush it off.

“Well, are we going to at least discuss what is going on, because for someone that said it was only a one-time thing, you’re leaning much closer to the friends with benefits line at this point, Q.”

“Can you please just put your damn pants on and shut up before someone gets home and hears you!”

She picks up Santana’s jeans from the end of the couch and tosses them onto her exposed abdomen. Santana stands up and pulls them on and straightens her shirt before storming towards the door. Quinn watches as she pulls her boots and jacket back on.

“Where are you going?” she inquires, snapping her compact shut to look up at Santana.

“I need fresh air,” she responds and she slides the door closed behind her, leaving Quinn standing alone in the middle of the apartment.

As soon as her feet hit the pavement of the sidewalk outside of the building, she pulls out her cell phone and scrolls through her list of contacts until she gets to the name she was searching for. She hits the call button and holds it up to her ear while it rings.

“Hey, Leigh. You still up for that coffee?”

~!~!~!~

Night has fallen by the time Santana finally returns to Brooklyn that evening. All she had really wanted was to knock back a few drinks with Leigh, but the older girl insisted that they stick with the original plan of grabbing coffee. So rather than sporting a good buzz that would make dealing with Quinn and her roommates more bearable, she is jittery from too much caffeine running through her veins.

Before she even reaches the top of the stairs of their floor, she can hear the loud, impromptu singing; Kurt and Rachel are playing hosts to the drama nerds once again. Santana wonders if she can sneak past them to her bedroom area without any of them noticing her. She really would like to just put on her noise-cancelling headphones while she watches Buffy on her laptop and avoid the whole ordeal altogether.

She has no such luck, however. Five feet into the apartment, Rachel comes streaking towards her from the kitchen with a wine glass in her hand. She throws her free arm around Santana’s shoulders and gives her a squeeze.

“You guysssss! This is our other roommate!” Rachel hiccups loudly, which throws her into a fit of giggles. She always has been such a lightweight; it’s not really a surprise given her size. “Say hi, Santana!”

Santana rolls her eyes, but Rachel won’t release her until she gives the group (who mostly seem disinterested with the appearance of the unknown roommate) a little wave of acknowledgement.

“Come play with us!” Rachel exclaims, leading her over to where the group is spread out through the living room.

“What are you dorks playing?” she asks, surveying the room. Three uptight looking girls, four flamboyantly gay men, and two guys that could possibly be straight are spread out over the floor and the furniture. Quinn is sitting between Kurt and one of the possibly straight men.

“Name that tune!” chimes in one of the gay guys.

Santana makes her way to the kitchen as soon as she hears the game because there is no way that she is facing this sober. There are a few bottles of wine sitting on the counter, but she bypasses them and reaches into the cabinet under the sink for the bottle of rum she has stashed there. Before she even thinks about making a drink and being social, she takes a few quick swigs directly from the bottle.

Her buzz hits quickly, especially considering that her dinner consisted of a scone and about fifty ounces of coffee. The theatre nerds and their exuberance for ridiculous games that nobody else would play at a party becomes slightly less annoying with the alcohol muddling her brain. She feels warm and kind of happy at being included, even if she is pretty sure this is what her worst nightmares were made up of during sophomore year. The NYADA kids are welcoming and not nearly as snooty as she would have expected (but maybe that’s the alcohol helping them pull the sticks out of their asses) and soon she finds herself trying to guess the names of songs as different people take turns picking them out of the hat and then giving their rendition of it.

Quinn is still wedged in on the couch and Santana catches her eye every now and then from her perch on the floor on the other side of the room. The blonde hasn’t had to get up once; the guy next to her, a confirmed straight guy named Reid, hops up every time her glass is even close to empty. It’s the kind of attention that Santana is used to Quinn receiving from men and she lets it go on so easily, like having her whims catered to by men is exactly what her purpose is.

Santana keeps watching her through quick glances and she notices as she begins to let herself sober up a bit that Quinn seems a little beyond tipsy and that Reid’s hand is moving way too far up her thigh. She desperately wants to cross the room and slap it away, but she knows that will just end up infuriating Quinn and Santana doesn’t want to deal with that kind of headache right now. So she glares at Reid and his ogre hands that are groping at the girl that she has an urge to stake her claim on.

When he makes a not-so-sly move to grab Quinn’s boob, Santana finally loses it. She stalks across the room and pulls Quinn’s arm to get her to stand up. Quinn wobbles on her feet for a second and Santana steadies her before she leads her off to the side and draws her privacy curtain around, encompassing the two of them in her bedroom area.

“What did you do that for?” Quinn asks and Santana can hear the angry-Quinn tone coming out in the words.

“He was getting way too handsy in front of an entire room of people, so I thought I’d save you some of the embarrassment of being the random out-of-town friend that comes off as easy,” Santana defends. She would never admit to Quinn how much it was bothering her to see a guy get to touch Quinn like that, in front of everybody no less. She knows that Quinn doesn’t plan to acknowledge that they slept together and that they’ll probably never discuss what all of it might mean, but that doesn’t keep her from wanting to tear her away from every guy that acts like Quinn is nothing more than an object. 

“I can handle myself, Santana. What do you think I’ve been doing for two semesters at Yale without you there to save me?”

“Well, for one, you dated a married professor and managed to convince yourself he might actually pick some silly, little undergrad over his wife. Need I continue?”

Quinn opens and closes her mouth a couple of times before she gives up on trying to form a coherent comeback. She sits down on the edge of Santana’s bed with a huff and crosses her arms over her chest.

“I’m not some fragile girl that needs saving all the time. I can make decisions for myself.”

But Santana hears the break in Quinn’s voice, like she’s a girl that has given up in believing in her own abilities. It hurts her to watch the cracks expose themselves when Quinn has spent so many years making sure they stayed glued shut. She nudges Quinn back onto the bed and pulls over her shoes before helping her under the covers. Then she changes into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and climbs in behind Quinn, cuddling up against Quinn’s back.

“Why does everybody else get to just follow their whims and it makes them happy?” Quinn asks meekly, but Santana recognizes that it’s rhetorical so she just drapes her arm over Quinn and lets her talk. “I try to date the boys that everybody tells me that I’m supposed to want, I try to date the bad boy, I date the older off-limits guy. No matter what I do, I never get to be happy.”

She sighs loudly and shifts back into Santana, pressing them impossibly closer.

“I went to a wedding that I didn’t even want to attend and I end up sitting next to you in that pew. And for the first time, it seemed like someone else was as unhappy as I felt. But then you were the one that tried to actually make me happy. You made me laugh and you forced me to dance and you looked at me with such reverence. And for a moment, I just felt special, ya know?”

She wants to respond and tell Quinn that she looks at her like that always, but that Quinn is just usually too absorbed in everything else to notice it. But she’s already exposed herself too much emotionally to Quinn, so instead she just lies there, unmoving.

It’s silent for so long that Santana thinks that Quinn has fallen asleep. She closes her own eyes and breathes in the fresh scent of Quinn’s shampoo as she tries to let herself fall asleep. She’s almost asleep when she hears Quinn’s voice again, quieter this time.

“I can’t stop thinking about that night in the hotel room with you. And I don’t know that I want to stop.”

Santana sucks in a breath at the admission, but she feels Quinn go limp in her arms and she knows that her friend has drifted off into a hazy sleep.

It is hours before Santana can finally fall asleep with Quinn’s words echoing around in her head.

When she wakes up, she’s alone in her bed. On the nightstand is a note scribbled on the back of an envelope in Quinn’s handwriting.

Had an early train to catch. I’ll call you soon.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the huge gap between updates; I’m still a week away from my summer vacation so work is insane and I’ve had a lot of family things come up unexpectedly. Once summer gets rolling I hope that I’ll be able to focus on this story much more. An extra big thank you to my beta, quasi-suspect, for letting me hash out my head-canon to her night after night and (virtually) holding my hand when the feelings got to be too much. She’s the best.

Santana stays in bed until the last possible minute on Sunday afternoon. If she didn’t have to work, she probably wouldn’t have gotten up at all. With all of the running around to get ready, she forgets Quinn’s written promise altogether. As she is walking up the last block towards the bar, her phone goes off. She fishes the phone out of her pocket and stares at the name on the screen.

 

“Uh, hey, Q,” she says casually, pausing to lean on the brick exterior of the bar. She’s going to be late for work at this rate, but Sunday afternoons are pretty quiet in the bar at least.

 

“Hey, sorry that I left so early. I had a group meeting at noon that I needed to be back for.”

 

“I’m glad you got back with no problem. I’m late for work though,” she says sheepishly.

 

“Oh! Sorry! Well, I guess I’ll talk to you soon, then?” 

 

It sounds unsure and Santana can’t help the smile that creeps onto her face at Quinn putting the ball in her court for once.

 

“I’ll catch you later.” She hangs up the phone before she can make a bad decision.

 

Work is slow, but it gives her plenty of time to think over the weekend with Quinn. Despite her anger that has been building for weeks over everything that has happened, she can’t stop smiling at the memory of Quinn admitting that the hotel room actually meant something to her. It wasn’t a big declaration of love, but it also wasn’t like Quinn was suppressing the memory of that night together the way she had try to forget about Beth the summer after her pregnancy. Sure, it was a drunken, sleepy admission, but it answers the question that Santana hadn’t stopped asking herself since the day she had returned to New York. It makes the pain over being ignored ebb a tiny bit. Dealing with Quinn’s issues seems more manageable now that she at least has a shred of understanding. She needs more answers before she could really start to forgive Quinn, but it feels like progress to be speaking again.

 

She forces herself to not text Quinn immediately after her shift. After all the waiting for Quinn to finally speak to her, she wants to at least maintain some dignity. It’s hard, however, now that she knows there’s a good chance that her message won’t go unanswered, but the idea of keeping hold of the upper hand keeps her from pressing send half a dozen times before she goes to sleep.

 

Her phone vibrates on the nightstand early in the morning two days later. Once again, it’s Quinn that has made the move. Santana smiles at the ridiculously boring picture Quinn has attached from her walk to class. She knows that it’s just Quinn’s awkward way of initiating contact despite not wanting to talk about anything important. She genuinely just wants to talk to Santana and she can’t help the giddy grin that creeps onto her face as she rolls over to go back to sleep. She waits to respond once she gets out of bed in the early afternoon, but Quinn replies almost immediately.

 

They fall into a casual pattern of texting on and off over the next couple of weeks. At first, Santana is glad for the playful banter that comes with having Quinn back as a friend. But they practically never stray away from joking and teasing one another or from minor small talk about Quinn’s classes or Santana’s bar shifts. Quinn freezes up whenever the conversation starts to move toward anything that might not be neutral. It’s frustrating to Santana to have to try and calculate Quinn’s reactions through a screen. 

 

Santana puts her energy into making new friends; when the girls from work start extending invitations to hang out, she doesn’t hesitate to take them. She’s finally making some real friends and it’s refreshing to hang out with people that are separate from her lingering high school drama.

 

Ashten, the brunette bartender, she finds out is only a year older than her and is using bartending to help pay her way through fashion school. She quickly becomes Santana’s favorite person to shop with and they spend their free hours rifling through racks at random boutiques where Ashten knows to go for the best deals. Kurt fawns over her growing wardrobe, but Santana keeps Ashten as far away from her label-obsessed roommate as she possibly can.

 

Santana’s favorite time is spent with Leigh, who is so laidback and cool. She grew up in Manhattan and Santana loves going out with her to every corner of the City, discovering new restaurants or going to dive bars to watch Leigh’s NYU friends play a gig with their band. Santana enjoys Leigh’s friends, even though most of them are college seniors like Leigh, and she doesn’t even mind the jokes they make about her age or her ridiculous Alaskan ID (although she has to admit that the girl at Louisville that got it for her did a good job because it works all over the City).

 

Part of Santana feels like Leigh is a really cool older sister with the way she listens to her ramble about her high school glee club and being a popular cheerleader and how she takes her under her wing and shows her the real world. The other part of her cringes at the thought of Leigh just being a sister because the flirty banter and lingering touches that they share as soon as the alcohol reaches their bloodstream makes Santana’s cheeks warm and a knot pull in her stomach every single time.

 

Soon her social calendar starts to fill up and it causes her to decline Rachel’s invitations (always through ridiculous e-vites even when they’re across the apartment from one another) for roomie movie marathons or open mic nights at Callbacks. New York becomes more like home with each passing day. But Santana still can’t stop focusing on the fact that life would be perfect if she and Quinn could just deal with whatever ridiculous tension is sitting between them.

 

On the first Friday of April, Santana gets Ashten and the new girl to cover her shifts for the weekend and she bribes Berry with two weeks of dishwashing duty in order to borrow her Metro North pass. Rachel asks a million probing questions and Santana continues to deflect them repeatedly until her bag is packed and she’s walking out the door to catch the train, pass in hand.

 

During the whole ride to New Haven, Santana toys with the idea of telling Quinn that she’s on her way. Quinn had told her yesterday that her weekend was clear for the most part, so she figured that Quinn wouldn’t mind her presence, even if she hadn’t explicitly been invited for a visit.

 

When the train pulls into the station and she unloads onto the platform, it dawns on her that she still needs to find a way to get to the actual campus. Her bag is heavy and dusk is already starting to fall. Plus she has no idea how far it is or which direction she needs to head in order to get there. 

 

She follows a trio of collegiate looking boys out of the station and she pauses on the sidewalk to reluctantly call Quinn to ruin her surprise and get a ride. Quinn doesn’t answer and Santana ends the call as her voicemail greeting clicks on. Santana sighs and watches the boys congregated on the far corner, laughing and clapping one another on the back. They look close to her age and she’s tempted to ask for their help, but before she can manage to swallow her pride, the cell phone clutched in her grip vibrates.

 

I’m out to dinner right now. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow before you go into work.

 

“Great,” Santana mutters under her breath. She shoves the phone into the pocket of her jacket and turns back to see the last of the boys disappearing onto a bus. With a sigh, she glances around the area, looking for alternatives. A couple of cabs are idling by the curb across the street and she figures they are her only shot of making it to the campus without completely ruining Quinn’s evening.

 

“Where to?” the cabbie asks as she settles into the backseat with her overnight bag at her feet.

 

“Yale University,” she responds rather quietly, clutching her purse tightly on her lap.

 

“What part of the campus?” he asks as he pulls into traffic.

 

“Uh, by the dorms I guess.” This wasn’t her most well thought-out plan ever. She could probably at least find what dorm Quinn lived in if she called Rachel, but dealing with her roommate’s questioning seemed more painful than figuring it out on her own. Plus, Rachel is probably still at rehearsal for Funny Girl since she practically lives there around her NYADA class schedule these days.

 

The cab pulls over only a few minutes later and he waits patiently as she digs for some cash to pay him. But as soon as she is deposited onto the side of the road, he pulls away from the curb without a second glance in her direction. She’s left standing on the sidewalk on the edge of campus. There are fancy, prehistoric looking everywhere and students walk randomly in and out of them, chatting away with friends or typing on their cell phones with headphones on. 

 

To her, all of the buildings look the same, though Quinn would probably be appalled to hear her insult Yale in that way. She has no idea about which ones are dorms are which are academic buildings. Even if she did, she has no clue as to what room number Quinn’s is and she doubts that she would be allowed to wait in her room without Quinn being there to admit her. She wishes that she could at least recall the name of Quinn’s roommate - Betty? or Bertha, maybe? - so that she could hang out with the girl until Quinn got back from dinner.

 

Santana plops herself on a bench outside one of the random buildings and plays around on her phone until night falls and it starts to get chilly. Finally, she gives in and texts Quinn back, telling her that she’s at Yale and that she’s sitting randomly in the middle of campus. The phone rings almost immediately and Quinn sounds confused and exasperated as she tries to figure out what is going on.

 

It takes ten minutes of them talking on the phone and Santana wandering around stupidly while she tries to give Quinn indicators as to where she is before Quinn finally appears on the path in front of her. Part of Santana is so relieved to not be stranded anymore that she wants to run and squeeze Quinn, but she refrains when she notices the clicking of Quinn’s heels on the pavement and the huge expanse of exposed thigh leading into a short dress that looks like Quinn stole from Santana’s own closet. It’s not an outfit for grabbing dinner with some friends; it is most definitely something that one would wear on a date.

 

Quinn offers to take her bag, though Santana refuses as she’s wearing flats that look a lot more comfortable than Quinn’s four-inch pumps. Quinn babbles on about her week and asks what made Santana show up, leaving Santana little room to get a word in edgewise. She floats along beside Quinn, not absorbing the path they take back towards Quinn’s residence at all.

 

At the desk inside, Quinn signs Santana in as a guest and leads her through the fancy lounge to the stairs. Quinn’s phone is glued to her hand and she taps away at the screen as they walk up the stairs. She pauses only long enough to fish out her keys to unlock the door to her room and she pushes it open to let Santana pass her as they enter.

 

The room is quaint and welcoming with its simplistic and very collegiate decorating of white walls covered with pictures of friends and posters. Santana picks out Quinn’s side in an instant with the collage of girls in red cheerleading uniforms hanging above the desk on the left side of the room. It makes her miss Louisville for a short moment, though she never took the time to really make her cramped room feel like home. She had been too preoccupied with hating cheerleading and trying to make things work with Brittany that she had hardly unpacked beyond making her bed.

 

Quinn closes the door behind herself and gestures at Santana to make herself comfortable. When Santana chooses to perch awkwardly on the edge of Quinn’s twin-sized bed, Quinn opts for her desk chair. Quinn’s phone goes off again, alerting her to a new text message, and she smiles as she glances down at the screen before she starts responding.

 

Santana glances around the room, taking in the little indicators of Quinn’s new life. There’s no cross hanging above her bed and her wall space has been taken over by cool artsy photographs mixed in with pictures of both her high school and college friends. Seeing pictures of Quinn with faces she doesn’t recognize makes her feel like she doesn’t even know Quinn anymore.

 

Quinn looks so happy and relaxed as she kicks off her shoes underneath the desk and runs her hand through blonde hair. Santana can feel how much she doesn’t seem to fit in this other world Quinn has built for herself and seeing it instantly makes her regret having shown up here unannounced. Obviously Quinn had her reasons for never extending the invitation in the first place.

 

“Do you want some water or something?” Quinn asks, finally looking up from her phone. Santana’s stomach growls rather loudly in response and she remembers that she never ate dinner since she had been sitting and waiting for Quinn. “Shit, have you not eaten? I only have like pretzels and oatmeal here, but I can order you something in.”

 

Santana shakes her head; she feels too queasy to accept Quinn’s hospitality right now.

 

“I’m fine, really. I’d go back to New York tonight if there was another train leaving. I didn’t mean to ruin your date.” It’s as close to an apology as she can muster. The image of Quinn cuddling up with some preppy Yale frat boy in a dim restaurant is enough to make her stomach turn over.

 

“It was just dinner,” Quinn clarifies, getting up to walk over to her dresser. She pulls out her pajamas before reaching for the zipper of her dress.

 

Santana wants to comment to Quinn that people don’t wear dresses that sexy to grab a quick bite to eat with a friend, but she manages to bite her tongue. It’s not worth starting a fight with Quinn over, especially when she has no place else to stay tonight. 

 

She instinctively turns away as Quinn starts to shimmy out of the dress. The dress hits the floor with a soft swish of fabric and santana tightens her jaw as she stares pointedly ahead at Quinn’s dorm fridge, willing the flashbacks from the hotel room to fade away as quickly as they came.

 

“You’ve seen me change a million times in the locker room, Santana,” Quinn says casually as she picks up the dress and tosses it towards her hamper by the closet. 

 

She moves into Santana’s line of vision in her tiny cotton shorts and Yale t-shirt. Santana’s mouth feels dry just from the proximity to Quinn in this private room. The tension between them feels stifling and she feels surrounded by the essence of Quinn with her honeysuckle shampoo and that perfume she only wears on special occasions. She must have put it on for the guy she was seeing tonight.

 

Quinn’s phone goes off again on her desk and she grabs it immediately, answering the person on the other end.

 

“Look, I can hang out here if you want to go out with your friends or whatever. I know you probably had plans for the weekend.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve already rearranged things for tomorrow so that we can hang out.” She rummages through her desk until she pulls out a stack of takeout menus. “We’ve got Chinese, Thai, Mediterranean, Italian...”

 

“You don’t have to play host, Q,” Santana replies. It’s weird to feel like Quinn’s charity case. “Where’s your roommate anyway?”

 

“Becky? She’s probably out with her friends as it’s a Friday night on a college campus. We don’t exactly tell one another our every move.”

 

Santana wants to laugh because that’s exactly what happens with Kurt and Rachel. She’s scolded constantly for not updating her work hours on the huge calendar hanging on the fridge so that they know exactly where she is every moment of the day.

 

“Did you want to go out?” Santana asks. Quinn smiles and drops her phone back onto her desk, gesturing to her outfit.

 

“Does it look like I do?” She laughs and moves to sit on the bed next to Santana. “How about some pizza and some crappy television like old times? I think Sweet Valley High might even be on Netflix now.”

 

Santana wakes up to Quinn nudging her on the arm. She’s in Quinn’s bed, tucked under the floral bedspread. Quinn’s sleeping bag is already rolled up again from where she had slept on the floor. Santana yawns and squints at the numbers on the digital clock. 9:41.

 

“C’mon, let’s grab coffee and let Becky sleep,” Quinn whispers. Santana knows she doesn’t really have a choice, even though she’d rather be sleeping in like Becky is. 

 

They get ready quickly in silence and Santana follows Quinn silently down the stairs until they’re out in the quiet morning sunshine. Quinn leads her towards a coffee shop and they order quickly, taking it to go. It’s nice out for early April and Quinn picks a bench in the sun to sit down on. Santana joins her, leaving a decent gap between them. She sips her coffee and looks over the perfectly manicured lawns of the campus.

 

“Why didn’t you just ask if you could come up for the weekend?” Quinn inquires.

 

Santana busies herself with drinking her coffee to buy her some time. The truth is that she wants to deal with all of the crap that’s still weighing down on her and Quinn. But at the same time, she doesn’t want to sound pathetic for heading all the way up here just to hear Quinn say the words sober that she mumbled drunk a few weeks ago. 

 

“I got last minute coverage from work and I thought it would be more fun to see you than hanging out with the Bobbsey Twins,” she says with a shrug of her shoulders.

 

“You still could have called so that I could have picked you up or something.”

 

Santana hates that Quinn is being so reasonable right now. Quinn’s intuition about people wasn’t as refined as hers, but that didn’t mean that she was completely oblivious to the situation.

 

“Is it really so weird that I wanted to do something special for my best friend?” Her palms start sweating and breathing starts feeling like a labored task because, yeah, it is a little weird to surprise your best friend with a random visit to deal with the fact that you can’t stop thinking about them pinning you to the couch in your apartment.

 

“The Santana I used to know would have showed up and dragged me to every lame frat party just to live up the college lifestyle without having to actually take classes,” Quinn points out.

 

“Well you go to a nerd school. Watching bookworms get wasted on one wine cooler is the college equivalent of accepting an invitation to another Rachel Berry Train Wreck Extravaganza,” she scoffs.

 

Quinn just raises her eyebrow as she catches Santana’s eye. It’s a tell-tale sign that Quinn is just humoring her.

 

“Do you remember what happened that night when you visited?” Santana is sick of skirting around it. If Quinn wants to talk about why she showed up, then they are going to deal with everything here and now.

 

“Yeah, I was having a fun time until you decided to play my knight in shining armor when I wasn’t a damsel in distress.” Quinn seems so annoyed by Santana stepping in to protect her from a guy that was definitely not respecting her, even if she was buzzed enough to be enjoying the attention. She tries to reign in her anger; calling Quinn out tends to just lead to slapping and heightened sexual tension.

 

“Do you recall what you said to me in my room?” Santana tries again. Quinn stares out over the quad as she replays their interaction in her head. Realization slowly creeps out over her features.

 

“Look Santana, just because I said that I’m not happy most of the time doesn’t mean that you need to stage an intervention on my behalf.”

 

Santana is taken aback; she had been so hyperfocused on what Quinn had said about the hotel room that night that she hadn’t even dwelled on Quinn alluding to her being depressed. Throughout high school, but especially following Beth’s adoption by Shelby at the end of their sophomore year, Quinn had always seemed a little sad to Santana. Quinn did everything in her power to maintain what little control she had left: grasping to her tiny thread of popularity remaining, throwing Santana under the bus to regain her Cheerios captaincy, using her accident as a way of purloining prom queen votes.

 

“I’m not here to tell you how you should be handling your issues,” Santana assures her. She steers the conversation back towards what she was originally hinting at. “You said something about the hotel room incident that night.”

 

She knows it’s dangerous territory to dive into when they have just finally gotten back to sort of being friends again. Does Quinn even remember what she said that night? She was drunk and half-asleep when it happened. Over the weeks of them talking, not once had Quinn mentioned what happened at the wedding or at Santana’s apartment following their awkward brunch.

 

“Was it about how it was obviously a bad decision to sleep with my best friend because now she seems to think it means more than the simple fact that we were both single, lonely, and we wanted to have some carefree fun?” Quinn’s tone feels cold and calculating. Santana knows that she has definitely struck a nerve, even if Quinn doesn’t remember what she actually said that night in Santana’s bed.

 

“No, it was much more along the lines of you thinking about that night all the time. Plus, would you like to explain why you then fucked me completely sober when you visited in New York? Because that wasn’t just due to your loneliness or desire to cross ‘collegiate lesbian experience’ off of your bucket list.”

 

“Maybe I’m just not the prude, little girl that you pigeon-holed me as when I transferred to McKinley.”

 

“So then, why me? You have a whole campus of pretty boys with trust funds and half a brain to bow down to you and service your every desire. I’m sure the guy you wore that skimpy dress for last night would have willingly fulfilled even your kinkiest fantasies.”

 

Quinn’s cheeks flush instantly at Santana’s crude comments and she sucks in a deep breath before responding.

 

“Why are you so convinced that my date was with a guy?”

 

“I seem to remember you saying something about you and sleeping with girls only being a one-time thing,” Santana retorts. “Why don’t you tell me all about this person you went out with last night.”

 

The idea of Quinn flirting with some girl while they both picked at their salad stings even more than it being another useless guy.

 

“Her name is Bridget and she’s in my psychology class. She’s intelligent and interesting and pretty much the opposite of every rude, stereotypical nickname that I know you’re itching to call her.”

 

It takes every fiber of her being to not retort with a string of crude insults about this Bridget girl. It’s exactly what Quinn expects her to do and she doesn’t want to be predictable and crass. Quinn lit up at even the slightest memory of one dinner with this girl. It aches deep into Santana’s chest and she turns away and crushes the empty paper cup of her coffee in her hands, letting the last drips fall to the pavement between her feet.

 

“It was just one date and I don’t know if she’s actually into me like that,” Quinn follows up, as if this tidbit is supposed to make Santana feel better. “I had an amazing time with you at the wedding. And yeah, that night is definitely unforgettable. But I saw how you were looking at Brittany across the dance floor. I didn’t miss the way you checked out Rachel’s legs multiple times. It was a fun one-night stand between two good friends. New York is full of bombshell lesbians that would be lucky to have a chance with you. It’s your fresh start away from everything that’s happened since that commercial aired. And this is my clean slate.” She gestures at the stately buildings and perfectly manicured lawns.

 

“Why does your new beginning have to involve putting me in your past?”

 

Quinn bites her lip and picks at a loose thread in the hem of her blouse. The extended silence hangs heavily between them. Santana feels frozen in place, like there’s no way Quinn could possibly be giving her a speech that sounds an awful lot like a break up speech considering they never were actually anything.

 

“You’re still my friend and I love that you’re in New York and we can hang out. But I need to deal with this, whatever it is, on my own. You opened my eyes to a lot of things that night and I need to find a way to be comfortable with all these crazy things going through my head.”

 

“Don’t you think of everybody that I get that, Quinn? I was in the closet and hiding from the world for years before that commercial aired. I had nobody to talk to, nobody to explain to me what the fuck all of this shit I was feeling was about. I’m right here willing to deal with all of your insane baggage and you’re choosing to figure it out with some random spoiled Ivy League brat instead of the girl that actually knows what you’ve already suffered through in this lifetime.”

 

“Can you please not make this about you?” Quinn pleads, the tears welling up in the corners of her eyes.

 

“What is it that you want from me? As your best friend, am I in charge of your coming out party? What flavor of cake do you want?”

 

Quinn stands and stares directly at Santana, the tears slipping down the plane of her reddened cheeks.

 

“I’m glad this is all a giant joke to you, Santana. Not that I should be surprised, you hide behind your horribly misplaced jokes and insults as soon as you realize that you can’t have everything your way.”

 

She starts to storm away and Santana leaps up to follow her. As much as she wants to be as far away from Quinn as possible right now, she also has no idea where she is and all of her stuff is still in Quinn’s dorm room.

 

They walk back, Quinn briskly striding to always stay a few paces in front of Santana, and Quinn lets the door slap into Santana’s arm as they enter the building. The stairs echo with the sound of the hard stomping of angry footsteps. When Quinn opens the door, Becky is mercifully absent again.

 

Santana immediately reaches for her bag, forcefully zipping it shut and moving for the door, brushing past Quinn.

 

“At least let me drive you to the train station,” Quinn says, spinning the doorway. Santana is already five feet down the hallway.

 

“I found my way here uninvited, I can find my own way back,” Santana responds simply and she walks away before she can change her mind.

 

She’s on the outskirts of campus before she realizes that cabs won’t just be waiting here like they were at the train station. She opens the map app on her phone and punches in the train station. It’s only about a mile away and she figures she can walk there faster than she would be able to get a cab here to take her there.

 

She focuses on the little blue dot that represents her on the map and follows the highlighted line through the streets of New Haven. It’s cathartic to feel like she’s making progress on something, even if it is following a virtual line that is leading her away from Quinn.

 

By the time she reaches the station, it occurs to her that she has no idea what the train schedule is like on a Saturday morning. After a quick search, she realizes that she still has over an hour before the train will be there, so she heads into the Dunkin’ Donuts to kill time. The whole time she sips her second cup of coffee and picks at her blueberry muffin, she stares at her phone. She doesn’t know if it would make her feel better or worse to hear from Quinn right now, but she can’t help but crave the communication.

 

But Quinn is too stubborn to reach out, especially when she thinks that Santana is completely in the wrong. They are back to square one and Santana can’t think of anything to fix it this time. The volatility of their friendship has finally caused them to combust.

 

By the time that the train is pulling out of New Haven, the tears finally release from her ducts. She lets her frustration run down her face fall in hot, wet streams, not bothering to wipe them away or fix her makeup. It’s a two hour train ride to Grand Central Station. She waits until the train slows to a halt before she runs a tissue under both eyes, picks up her bag, and promises herself that she’s done crying over Quinn Fabray.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my lovely beta quasi-suspect is the bomb.com.

Santana makes a pit stop at a bathroom in Grand Central station. Women bustle in and out quickly around her; there’s no such thing as moving leisurely when trying to get someplace in New York. She stands at the mirror and surveys the damage. Her eyes are bloodshot and puffy. Tear tracks are stained down her cheeks, bringing with them a line of smeared mascara. She looks awful and pathetic and it makes anger bubble within her chest. She’s angry for letting herself get so wrapped up in the thought that Quinn might actually feel the same way about her. She’s mad at Quinn for how little she seems to understand. She’s already frustrated with Rachel’s incessant questioning that she knows is going to begin as soon as she walks into the loft.

With a sigh she digs through her bag for her makeup and goes to work fixing the damage from the tears. She can’t help the redness, but she figures she can pass that off on a lack of sleep. She’s already off the schedule at work for the rest of the weekend, so sleeping and hiding from any real responsibility sounds like the perfect excuse anyway.

It’s the middle of the afternoon when she walks through the door and Rachel looks at her curiously. Santana keeps her sunglasses pulled down over her eyes.

“We weren’t expecting-” Rachel starts.

“I feel like crap and I’m tired. Try to keep the noise down for once tonight, will ya?” Santana interrupts, not pausing even a fraction as she heads for her own curtained area. She whips the fabric around its track behind her and drops her bag onto the floor before stripping down to her underwear. Without hesitation, she climbs under her covers and yanks them up over her head to drown out the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window.

She’s not actually tired, but her eyes feel heavy nonetheless. She closes them as she burrows deeper into the dark warmth of her blankets. It feels like protection from all of the crap going on around her, even for the smallest instant. She wills her body to fall into dreamless sleep, but instead all she can think about is Quinn in her tight dress looking exhilarated from a night out with Bridget. The name tastes sour in her mouth even though she doesn’t even speak it out loud.

Would Quinn actually date this girl? Or is this some kind of experimentation to see whether her charm works on anybody? Quinn likes control more than any other person Santana has ever met. She wouldn’t put it past her to find a way to use her flirtation to get what she wants.

But what is it that Quinn would want? She has a bright future. Her dad is out of the picture. Her mom is actually trying to support her dreams despite Quinn choosing to major in drama of all things. Shelby lets her see Beth when she’s in Ohio and she’s managed to leave the baggage of high school behind her. She’s standing completely on her own two feet and is completely in control of where her life leads.

Santana, on the other hand, has no idea what she’s doing. Sure, New York is full of people that have no problem speaking their minds just like she does. Bartending is fun and she makes killer tips if her tank top is cut low enough. She gets to sing while dancing on a bar while men and women alike whistle at her and affirm that she is blessed in the attractiveness category. But what does it all add up to? Her future is a looming dark cloud of what feels like impending failure.

Rachel is already in rehearsals for her Broadway debut. Not only is she going to be on Broadway, but she’s doing it as the lead role in her all-time favorite musical. Kurt flips back and forth between wanting to be a performer and a fashion designer with ease. He’s got a solid foot in both doors between being Carmen Tibideaux’s new pet and playing Isabelle Wright’s personal assistant in his free time. Mercedes has recorded background on the majority of an album at this point and is in negotiations to tour with the singer after the album drops at the end of the summer.

Even Brittany managed to find a way to get out of high school early in order to pick up a spot at MIT. Granted, she only lasted two weeks before she decided that she was too smart for academia and took off for Los Angeles. It’s a better fit for her and Santana always knew it was only a matter of time before Brittany ended up in the spotlight. She hasn’t tried to audition for anything yet - Brittany told her that she was just enjoying the people watching right now - but Santana figures she’ll find Brittany on a big stage within the year.

Puck has taken over Finn’s spot at Burt’s garage and is training as a mechanic. Finn is actually in college to become the next sweater-vest leader of some dorky glee club in Ohio. The people that Santana knew had no chance of escaping the doldrums of Ohio are still making a life for themselves. They are going somewhere with a purpose and an attainable goal. She has none of the above. Instead, she is living paycheck to paycheck in a cramped apartment with two divas and no actual walls in a crappy neighborhood in Brooklyn.

She pulls her legs up tight into her body, crawling into a ball amongst the blankets. In high school she was so overly confident in her abilities that she figured as long as she escaped that stifling, homophobic town, the rest would be a breeze. She is young and beautiful. The world is supposed to bow down at her feet. But here she is, doing her damnedest to hide from the world instead.

Someone peels back her blankets an undetermined amount of time later. She squints at the clock, but her contacts are dry and sore in her eyes and everything feels blurry. The sun is starting to fade outside of her window.

“Santana, you’ve been in bed for over 24 hours. What’s going on with you?” It’s Kurt’s voice.

She shoves back the rest of the covers and kicks her feet off the side of the bed until they land on the wooden planks. Without bothering to respond to him, she stalks off to the bathroom to peel the contact lenses from her sore eyes. Once she does so, she feels grimy from the hours of traveling and crying and sleeping under a heavy comforter in the warm spring weather. She hops in the hot jet of water spraying from the showerhead and ignores Kurt’s banging from the other side of the only locking door in this apartment. He finally gives up midway through her conditioning ritual and she tries to enjoy the rest of her shower in peace.

Kurt is sitting on the end of her bed when she returns and he averts his gaze from her shower-wet skin wrapped in a tiny towel. Santana rolls her eyes and lets the towel fall to the ground as she rummages through her drawer for her underwear. When she moves to her closet, which is really just a rolling rack that Kurt scored her from Vogue.com when they were upgrading, she walks directly in front of Kurt, who squeals and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Kurt, you don’t even like girls. I know you’re not going to get your rocks off by seeing some perfectly enhanced fun globes. Plus, if it really bothers you that much, you’re welcome to leave my curtained area as you’re in here uninvited in the first place.”

She yanks a shirt over her head and flips through the hangers until she decides that the sweatpants crumpled in a pile next to her bed are more appealing as she has no intentions of leaving the apartment today anyway.

“I’m concerned about you,” Kurt states, crossing his arms over his chest and eyeing her outfit in disgust now that she’s actually dressed.

“I’m not some charity case that needs your magical makeover to feel better. Save that crap for Berry.”

“You are hardly ever here anymore. Rachel tells me that you bullied her into borrowing her train pass on Friday afternoon, yet you’re back looking like a wreck by mid-day Saturday. Then you sleep for a full day and completely ignore me when I come to make sure you’re not dead. You walked right past Rachel while she was wearing those horrible jeggings and you didn’t snark at her even a little bit. You’re obviously sick or heartbroken.”

“Try neither. And how about you worry about your own issues, Fairy Prince? Have you happened to tell Blaine yet about your new boyfriend that sleeps here five days a week? Or have you informed Adam that your high school squeeze is going to be at NYADA in the fall?”

“Your lethal truths stopped hurting around the time I realized that you have a million more issues than the rest of us.” Santana scoffs at him and busies herself with unpacking her bag from the weekend. “Look, I’m your friend. You can trust me with whatever you’re trying to hide from.”

“Who says I’m trying to hide from anything? I partied too hard at Yale and needed to sleep off a killer hangover.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Kurt tries in his half-soothing, half-condescending tone. “Do you really expect me to believe you were out all night partying with goody-goody Fabray?”

“She’s changed,” Santana defends.

“You’re right; she has finally realized that her longer hair frames her face better and that skinny jeans are much more flattering than the sundresses from the Conservative Republican church yard sale.”

“This isn’t about her outfits. She is just … different.” Quinn is right - she’s no longer the prude little girl that does everything her daddy wants anymore. She has cool, new friends, she is majoring in drama of all things. Plus, she’s sleeping with women beyond a one-night experiment.

“And do you have anything to do with this new and improved version of Quinn?”

“What?” Santana asks incredulously. Surely she wasn’t that obvious. “How would I have any influence on Quinn’s hideous collection of cardigans now if I couldn’t get her to burn them in high school?”

“This isn’t about her wardrobe, remember?” Kurt says, throwing her own excuse back at her. “But I did, however, notice that you dragged her away from an opportunity to hook up with a very attractive male when she was visiting a few weeks ago. Nevermind the fact that you were slow dancing and gazing into one another’s eyes at Mr. Schue’s wedding. Care to explain what any of that happened to mean?”

Santana drops the pair of shoes she extracted from her bag and lets them hit the floor with a thud. She climbs on her bed behind Kurt and flops back on her pillows, covering her eyes with her arm.

“I slept with her.”

The words ring out. Her secret is exposed. Quinn doesn’t want them to know, she’s sure of that based on her reaction a few weeks ago, and Kurt isn’t the most trustworthy person she’s ever met when it comes to gossip, but she needs to talk about it with someone.

“I had sex with Quinn at Schue’s wedding. And it was awesome, but she’s been a complete psycho since then. So we talked when she visited and that just led us to rolling around naked on the couch and her eventual freak out. Then we kind of started talking normally again but we hadn’t dealt with what any of it meant so I went up to New Haven to make her talk and it didn’t go well.”

She’s thankful for the arm over her face as her eyes start to tear up again. She wasn’t going to do this. She wasn’t going to cry over Quinn after she promised herself that she was going to move on from all of this crap. Her body tenses as she tries to fight them off, leaving them stranded within the confines of her eyes.

“You went all the way to New Haven to make her talk about a one-night stand? That seems a little extreme, Santana.”

“It’s not about the one night stand. It is much more about the fact that I know it meant something to her and she’s not willing to admit it. Not that I should be surprised, Quinn Fabray always has been an ice cold bitch.”

“You’ve had a ton of one-night stands. I don’t see why it matters if it was with Quinn or some other random no-name girl you pick up at the bar.”

The truth was that she hadn’t slept with anybody besides Quinn and Brittany in almost two years. She gave up on guys for good as soon her commercial ran and blew her cover altogether. Then she was with Britt and, despite her history of being the homewrecker, she had never thought once of really cheating on Britt. In retrospect, an energy exchange with a complete stranger that she had no real interest in pursuing really wasn’t a testament to her faithfulness.

After that, there was nobody that caught her interest long enough for her to end up sleeping with them.

“She’s supposed to be my best friend, Kurt. And now she’s acting crazy and avoiding me.”

“It’s kind of ironic that you’re more upset over sleeping with Quinn than you were over your breakup with Brittany. How is she anyway?”

Santana sits up and glares at him. 

“This has nothing to do with Brittany. And really, it has nothing to do with you. So why don’t you try to keep your huge mouth shut about this and stop prying for more gossip.”

Kurt’s mouth opens and closes a couple of times before he gives up altogether. He stands up from the bed and brushes off the invisible dust from his pants.

“Now, if you don’t mind, this is my area of the apartment and I’d really enjoy my privacy not being invaded every second of the day.” 

Kurt sighs, knowing that it’s a lost cause. He’s not going to be able to make her talk about it if she doesn’t want to do so. He walks out of her section and pulls the curtain closed behind him before padding across to his own partition.

Part of Santana wants to follow him and apologize for being a cold-hearted bitch. Truthfully, he has been the best friend that she’s had in awhile out of the glee club group. He steps in every time she and Rachel get at one another’s throats (although that is happening less and less these days), he makes sure that there is free coffee when she wakes up late on Sunday mornings after a late shift. She knows that he’s just concerned, but it doesn’t make being vulnerable any easier.

People getting involved was not what she had in mind at all. Kurt’s intentions were most likely genuine in that he wanted to help her deal with whatever it was going on, but this wasn’t high school anymore. She wasn’t going to chase after someone that was so deep in the closet that she’ll probably never make it out. New York is full of beautiful women. She may have no idea what she wants to do with her life, but she also knows what she doesn’t want. Waiting on someone that obviously doesn’t feel the same is definitely not on the agenda.

With that in mind she changes out of her sweatpants and t-shirt and pulls on a tight dress and heads to the bathroom to fix her hair. Kurt stays hidden in his partition the whole time she gets ready. Somewhere between curling her hair and doing her makeup, she texts Leigh to hang out. Leigh responds with the name of a bar downtown where some of her NYU friends are playing a gig tonight. The promise of booze and the company of mature, college-aged kids dramatically lightens her mood and she knocks back two shots of tequila by herself in the kitchen before picking up her clutch and heading out for the night without so much as a goodbye for Kurt.

It takes her an hour of navigating the subway system until she’s flashing her ID at the bouncer and heads into the dim bar. It’s still early and she realizes that she’s starving from the lack of eating since she was in bed for a full day instead. Leigh texts her to say that she’s on her way and that the guys should already be setting up. Santana spots them in the back on the small stage and she picks a small table on the right side and waves over a waitress to place an order.

She orders a burger and a beer and Leigh shows up just as her beer is being delivered. They cheek kiss before Leigh slides into the seat next to her and two other girls - Santana can’t remember their names even though she’s certain she’s met them at least once before - grab stools across from them.

When her burger comes, they all order a couple pitchers of beer and Leigh steals french fries off her plate and they all talk. Santana feels a little left out; they’re all in college and are talking about impending finals and future plans, while she only has one semester of barely passing electives under her belt. But she nods and smiles and laughs when it’s appropriate. It’s a relief when the guys start warming up and their instruments . The waitress comes over and brings them new pitchers and Leigh tops off her mostly-empty glass before filling her own. She doesn’t know if it’s her third or fourth beer, but she’s already feeling the buzz between the shots and beer. 

Leigh is staring towards the little stage and Santana can feel her feet tapping against the leg of her stool in time with the instrumental introduction. She’s acutely aware of the way Leigh is leaning into her. Their shoulders graze as Leigh moves her stool closer to Santana so that she has a more straight on view of the stage. Santana is too focused on the warmth of Leigh’s soft skin against hers to notice the person standing at the microphone on the stage.

“This girl is a senior at Tisch,” Leigh yells into her ear and gestures at the small brunette that’s standing on the front of the stage clutching the microphone stand. The music picks up behind her and as it fades into the first verse, the girl’s voice takes over.

Santana feels blown away. She’s tiny - even smaller than Berry - but her voice carries to every corner of the building. It resonates straight through Santana. There’s no denying that the girl has a set of pipes.

The genre of music is more indie than anything and it surprises her that a trained voice from Tisch chooses to sing with them, but she feels as enthralled as she does every time Rachel belts on a stage. The girl has a cool quality to her voice that’s distinctly different from Rachel’s straight-up powerhouse belting or Mercedes’s crazy runs.

Santana’s dream was to be famous - it’s the only thing she really focused on during senior year while everybody else was worrying about college. She figured she had more street smarts than the average suburban-raised white kid and she was better looking than most, that landing her name in lights couldn’t be that difficult. Her talent was natural; she hadn’t gone to voice coaches for years like Kurt or Rachel did. She didn’t waste her time in formal dance classes past the age of nine. Performing was one of those things that just came naturally to her without any support from her parents or any fancy classes to give her an edge. She just truly believed she was one of those people that Simon on American Idol would say has the “it factor”.

But watching this girl adapt to her crowd and sing like this was actually a big audition for some prestigious music group, Santana feels - no, knows - that she’s an absolute nobody in the performance world. She doesn’t even have a toe in the door in the industry. Hell, she wasn’t even considered by Leigh’s friends to sing with their little, part-time band.

“She’s awesome though, isn’t she?” Leigh calls into her ear, her arm swinging through Santana’s and her hand rests on Santana’s forearm where it’s sitting on the table. Santana feels the chills crawl up her spine.

“Yeah. Great.” Her gig at the bar isn’t good enough. It’s glorified karaoke at best. This girl is the real deal, and yet she’s here singing in a small bar lost somewhere in Manhattan. Mere miles away are some of the most famous concert halls in the world. You know you’ve made it big when Carnegie Hall is packed to the brim on a weeknight to hear you sing. This girl with a voice that could summon angels is leaps and bounds ahead of Santana in obtaining that dream.

The girl sings perfectly through a few more songs before she reaches for her water bottle and takes a few thirsty gulps. Santana feels the irrational jealousy flare within her. She’d kill for an opportunity like this, just to have a chance to perform, really perform. At the same time, the guilt of not even starting to work on getting anywhere floods her chest, weighing her down.

“Excuse me,” she says, pulling her arm out from beneath Leigh’s as she pushes herself away from the table just as the girl starts singing the next song.

The bar has gotten crowded since she arrived and her vision feels fuzzy as she tries to weave through the people towards the bathroom. She waits on the absurdly long line and takes her time washing her hands when she finishes, staring straight ahead into the mirror. Her hair and makeup are flawless. Her cheeks are pink from the alcohol, but it just seems to make her cheekbones even more prominent. She has everything most girls can only dream of having. Yet she’s miserable.

Santana clutches the edges of the sink and stares into her own eyes, willing herself to find some redeeming quality that will remind her that she has a chance to make it in this huge, overwhelming city. People move past her and she doesn’t even notice.

“San, are you okay?” Santana pulls her eyes away from her reflection to see Leigh standing behind her with her arms crossed over her chest and a look of concern etched deeply on her face.

Santana reaches forward and turns the tap on and washes her hands again as a distraction. She starts to move towards the door, afraid to let her vulnerability spill onto the dirty floor of the bar bathroom. Leigh is quicker though and she reaches out for Santana’s arm, causing her to pause.

“Santana,” she says soothingly and slowly rotates Santana until they’re facing one another. Santana can almost see the words on the tip of Leigh’s tongue. She reeks of compassion and sympathy and everything Santana wants to completely run away from. But her hand finds Santana’s waist and her eyes lock in on hers. She’s mesmerized by this girl, the one that has listened to her ridiculously childish drama over a girl from high school for months now, but still makes her feel included when they’re out with her college friends. Her blue eyes are soft and understanding, and Santana doesn’t pull away when Leigh steps into her and tilts her head down to connect their lips.

Maybe this is what good friends do. They find the one way to make all the fears and disappointments melt away. Santana feels herself getting completely lost in the moment and, for once, that doesn’t scare her. Because Leigh is different. Leigh isn’t going to load her up with baggage from one kiss. She’s not going to make Santana doubt every word of communication that passes between them. And most of all, she’s helping Santana forget about the blonde hair and the hazel eyes that haunt her thoughts constantly.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Leigh mumbles against her lips. Santana’s eyes peek open and are met with the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom. She wordlessly grabs Leigh’s hand and pulls her back through the crowded room. They pause only long enough for Santana to throw some crumpled bills onto the table next to the half-empty pitcher of beer.

She lets Leigh lead the way, they’re only a few blocks from NYU and Leigh forgoes a cab for striding down the sidewalk in her four-inch heels like it’s a daily activity and Santana feels breathless as she walks beside her, their hands still linked between them. She realizes that she’s never actually been to Leigh’s apartment in all the time they’ve hung out, though she’s hidden her new friends from her own roommates as well, so she can’t blame Leigh for never inviting her over.

Santana doesn’t get a chance to really take in the building as Leigh slows because before she has a chance, her back is pressed against the rough brick wall. A guy on the sidewalk whistles when Leigh’s hands grasp her face and pull their mouths together like she physically couldn’t wait until they were up the stairs and inside the front door. The thought of someone needing her desperately enough to push her against the outside of the building is enough for Santana to surge forward and deepen the kiss, her own hands getting tangled in Leigh’s wavy, blonde hair.

When she’s out of breath, she loosens her grip, but doesn’t let go.

“Is your bed really that far away?” she teases, her fingers stroking against the back of Leigh’s neck. Looking up at her is a different experience from her past encounters. Even though Brittany and Quinn were both taller than her, she tended to have the height advantage with the help of Manolo and Jimmy Choo. Leigh has at least five inches on her naturally and she’s wearing heeled flip-flops that don’t allow Santana’s shoes to balance them out. 

Leigh giggles and leans down to kiss her again and Santana feels all of the doubt seep from her body. Leigh lets her live in the moment and it makes her feel like a weight is lifted from her shoulders as she pushes away from the wall and cocks her head at Leigh as if to silently ask if they could take this upstairs. Leigh fumbles through her purse for her keys and unlocks the front door to the building, holding it for Santana to breeze past her. They take the elevator up to the sixth floor - and almost miss their floor altogether because Santana’s mouth finds Leigh’s collarbone as soon as the doors shut behind them in the lobby.

Leigh separates them just long enough to catch the door and lead Santana down the narrow hallway. They pause as she fits the key in the lock, with much more grace than Santana would be able to, and pulls Santana inside by the fabric of her dress.

Santana doesn’t see any of the apartment. She stumbles backwards as Leigh kicks off her shoes by the entryway and leads Santana deeper into the apartment through the dark. Before she even has a chance to take control, Leigh is shoving her bedroom door open and pushes Santana back onto the bed.

Santana lets her body lead the way; Leigh is hot and she’s stripping out of her sinfully tight shirt. She’s smirking at Santana like she knows exactly how to drive her crazy. Santana gives into it. She doesn’t fight the building burn in her lower abdomen. She lets Leigh act like she has all of the control before she surprises the taller girl and flips her over. This isn’t about love or feelings. Brittany can say it’s better with feelings all she wants, but this kind of unattached animalistic approach is exactly what Santana needs to let her mind shut off.

The release is a good one; Leigh is skilled in ways Santana has hardly even started exploring. She finds herself burying her face into the pillow and balling her hands into fists as she moans out her name, her body shaking from the force of her release.

When her body can no longer hold her up, she falls limblessly back onto the mattress on her stomach and shivers as Leigh kisses up the plane of her spine until she flops down next to her. Her breathing is labored and she closes her eyes as she tries to regain full consciousness.

“You’re pretty good for a newbie,” Leigh comments, propping herself up on her arm while she traces invisible lines on Santana’s side.

“Who are you calling a newbie?” Santana asks indignantly. She’s been with girls for years, even if it was in the closet. Well, one girl at least. And then Quinn.

“It’s not a bad thing to be young, hot, and pretty talented with the ladies, Santana,” Leigh says. “Don’t rush growing up. Soon enough you’ll be trying to figure out what it is you want to do with your life. And trust me, grad school applications and internships and all of that other crap takes away from your chance to just be a kid while you’re young enough to enjoy it.”

The absolute last topic Santana wants to discuss is her future. It’s definitely more taboo than her sexual history with women.

Instead she rolls over into Leigh and finds a different way to distract her.

Leigh falls asleep first, her naked body sprawled carelessly over the majority of the bed. Santana is trapped beneath the dead weight of Leigh’s arm across her stomach and the foot hooked between hers.

It’s surprisingly not intimate. It’s not some awkward form of post-sex sweaty cuddling. There’s no affection written in Leigh’s wild limbs; she mostly just seems like a girl that isn’t used to sharing a bed. Santana wonders if she can slip from beneath Leigh’s lazy grip without disturbing the older girl. It’s late at this point - the digital clock on Leigh’s nightstand tells her it’s just past three in the morning.

The subway back to Brooklyn at this hour would be scary on her own, especially in her wrinkled dress and pumps. As much as she knows she’d sleep better far away from Leigh’s bed, it feels rude to just leave someone she considers her friend in the middle of the night. Leigh has done nothing but be sweet and awesome and deserves so much more than that. So Santana rolls over, nudging Leigh’s arm off of her so that it hits the mattress with a thud behind her back. She punches the pillow into a more comfortable shape and pulls the comforter up tight under her chin.

It’s just one night. Just one night of sleeping in the same bed with a friend. Naked. But it was just some harmless fun. 

Her brain is refusing to shut off, but she tries to convince it that the whole ordeal really isn’t a huge thing. A few hours ago, it was a distracting kiss. That led to more. It’s a natural progression for two hot, single girls.

Santanas wakes to hear Leigh’s voice singing in the shower. It’s refreshing; Rachel and Kurt both chose to run their scales five million times as the water heats up (the plumbing is definitely not superb in the loft - it takes ten minutes to get the water hot enough to enjoy the shower) and then they usually launch into some Broadway classic or sing the same line over and over for their vocal classes. Leigh, on the other hand, is singing some Sara Bareilles song that Santana vaguely recognizes from one of her Pandora stations. It’s obscure and by no means perfect, but that makes it all the more enjoyable. Santana gathers her belongings and pulls on her clothes from the night before in an attempt to not still be lying naked in Leigh’s bed when she gets out of the shower.

She makes the bed, though she’s not sure she even did it right as she practically never makes her own, and is sitting primly on the edge when Leigh walks out of the bathroom completely naked. She squeezes at her long hair with a towel to keep it from dripping, but does nothing about the tiny droplets shining from the surface of her skin. Santana glances down at the worn carpet with instantaneous, fervid interest.

“I’m glad you’re up. Do you want some sweatpants or something instead?”

Santana shakes her head quickly and wonders if she can grab her clutch and make a dash for it without having to actually lift her eyes from the floor.

“I was thinking we could grab some bagels. There’s a killer place about two blocks from here that makes veggie cream cheese good enough that you don’t care about clogging your arteries.”

“I-I think I’m just going to head home. Need to, uh, nap before work.” Santana wants to shake herself for how immature she sounds right now.

“You took the weekend off for reasons unknown, remember?” Leigh calls her out.

“Oh, yeah, I promised Rachel I’d be at her recital this afternoon and she’s probably already having a meltdown without me there to pick her shoes,” Santana tries, though she knows her lack of finesse isn’t lost on Leigh even in the slightest.

“Okay, cool. Well, then I’ll walk you out,” Leigh says, her tone light.

She lifts her gaze from the floor and is relieved to see that Leigh has at least put panties and a bra on. She reaches for her clutch that’s thrown carelessly under Leigh’s desk chair and follows Leigh out of the bedroom while trying to not stare at the firm ass directly in front of her. 

Leigh unlocks the door and pulls it open before leaning on the doorframe.

“I’ll see you at work on Tuesday?” she asks, scratching her toned stomach. Santana’s insides quiver at the movement and it takes all of her self-control to step out into the hallway instead of dragging her back to the bedroom.

The smart decision, of course, is to leave before this can get any more complicated. Being tipsy on a Saturday night and sleeping with a friend is one thing, but sleeping with them while the sun is shining through the window with a building hangover is a completely different league of confusion.

“Yeah, see you then,” Santana says and turns to go. Leigh steps into the hallway and kisses her cheek quickly before sidestepping back into the confines of the apartment.

“Bye, Santana,” she calls over her shoulder as she closes the door to the apartment behind her.

Santana looks at the closed door for a moment, wondering if it should be that easy to leave after a night of wild sex. Her and Leigh definitely have a connection; it’s what brought them together as friends in the first place. But there was no snuggling and she was able to leave without an awkward morning-after breakfast. In reality, it was almost like how it had been when she was sleeping with Puckerman in high school.

Rachel and Kurt are both sitting at the table sipping their coffee when she arrives home. Kurt mumbles a half-hearted greeting in her direction, but he’s obviously still trying to avoid her wrath. Rachel, on the other hand, has no such qualms.

“I saw that your bag was back from being in New Haven already. Did you have fun? How is Yale? Do you think it’s a good environment for Quinn?”

“Seriously, Rach, it’s way too early to be playing 20 questions.” She pours herself some coffee and plops into a seat at the table.

“I was just surprised that you decided to come back so quickly considering your urgency regarding my Metro North pass.” Santana tightens her hands around her mug. She really has no patience for Rachel’s prying ways this morning.

“The girl that was supposed to cover my shift today bailed so I have to go in,” she lies, figuring it’ll give her an excuse to leave for a few hours if nothing else.

Rachel is about to start in again, but Kurt taps her arm and shakes his head in warning. Santana is grateful for his solidarity against the incessant chatterbox. She feels a little bit bad that he took the brunt of her confusion yesterday, but she’ll talk to him when she doesn’t have a million things running through her head.

As soon as she finishes her coffee, she announces that she needs to shower and walks off. It’s not until she has stripped out of last night’s outfit and the steam starts filling the bathroom that she really notices the smell of Leigh’s perfume clinging to her skin. 

It’s a weird sensation and not one that she has experienced in a long, long time. Brittany and Quinn were so familiar. Santana figures she could identify their favorite body washes and perfumes without hesitation. This unfamiliar scent reminds her of the days of sleeping with football players with their overbearing excessive use of cheap cologne. But sleeping with Leigh didn’t come with the self-loathing disgust that those encounters had included. In fact, the citrusy scent was pleasant, even mixed with the stale sweat. Santana feels satisfied in the way that only a good night of sex can make her feel.

The hot water washes the reminders of the night down the drain. It’s peaceful being enclosed into the only room with real walls. For once, she knows her roommates will stay away and give her some space. She takes advantage of it, standing under the spray until the water starts running cold.

When she finally emerges, Rachel is nowhere to be seen and Kurt is sitting in the armchair with a textbook propped in his lap. He looks up and eyes her cautiously like he’s trying to read her current mood. She walks past him with little, content smile, but that seems to just make him more nervous.

As soon as she’s dressed, she joins Kurt by flopping down on the couch and turning on the television.He looks over the edge of his book before glancing back down, figuring that avoiding conversation is probably the safest option right now.

“Where’s Rach?” she asks, casually flipping through the channels.

“Rehearsal again,” he responds simply, not looking up.

The sound of the infomercial is the only noise filling the apartment, but Santana can’t focus on it. She stares through the screen as the excitable host demonstrates the strength of the vacuum on a filthy white carpet.

“What do you think it means that I am more hurt by Quinn’s dismissal than breaking up with Britt?” The words slip out from her current thoughts. She has already spilled the beans to him; she figures she should at least take advantage of a friend that’s willing to listen.

Kurt puts his highlighter into the book and lets the cover thud closed in his lap. He moves it to the coffee table and gives her his full attention.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything that you don’t want it to,” replies Kurt with a shrug. “Different people have different effects on us. We can’t necessarily compare them equally. Dating Brittany during high school and doing whatever this is with Quinn are very different scenarios.”

Santana bites her lip and watches the vacuum magically pick up broken crayons with no problem on the TV.

“When did you become so profound and knowledgeable about relationships?” she asks.

Kurt shrugs his shoulders again. Santana doesn’t think he even knows where it came from.

“You’re not gonna tell Rachel what a pathetic sap I am.” It’s not a question or even a plea. Yet Santana doesn’t put her normal threatening bite into the statement. Kurt nods at her and picks up the book again, realizing that Santana has had enough soul-sharing for the day.

She goes back to flipping through channels and tries to ignore her scattered thoughts. Her relationship with Brittany feels so long ago that it’s a faded memory. It doesn’t hurt to see new pictures of her on the laps of random guys at L.A. clubs or hear about her latest conquests. Quinn was “exploring” what Yale had to offer and that stung more than Santana would ever admit aloud. 

But Leigh didn’t spark any of those confusing emotions within her. That threw Santana off; Leigh was a good friend that she did really care about, but she was able to separate feelings and sex the way she had with guys in high school. Was she being insensitive to Leigh? The girl had tried to get her to have breakfast this morning and Santana shut her down. Leigh hadn’t seemed upset about it, however.

When Santana goes into work on Tuesday, she’s surprised to see that she’s there before Leigh, who is pretty much always early for work. She preps the bar by herself and is halfway through cutting fruit when Leigh finally strolls in one minute before her shift. It’s another five minutes before she appears behind the bar with Santana and she says a quick hello before grabbing the cutting board and a handful of limes.

The bar gets pretty busy for an early dinner rush so Santana only gets near Leigh when they’re passing one another to ring something up on the computer or pour a draught beer. 

It's not until the bar starts emptying after last call and they start cleaning the place up that they even have a chance to talk. 

"How was your friend's performance?" Leigh says casually while washing the pint glasses. Santana pauses for a moment to think. Oh right, her lie to get out of the inevitably awkward morning-after breakfast. 

"Oh, it was fine," Santana responds vaguely. She scrubs a particularly sticky spot on the surface of the bar. 

"Isn't she the one that is going to be in Funny Girl? It's impressive that she finds time for secondary performances."

"I think it's a NYADA requirement or something. I don't really ask questions because then I have to listen to her explain for half an hour."

Leigh chuckles lightly and moves onto lifting the stools onto the bar. 

"Why do you choose to live with such drama queens when you're not near their level of intensity?"

Santana contemplates for a minute. She knows that she complains about Rachel and Kurt, but it's really become more of a bad habit than her actually finding them so annoying. 

"We're kind of like a screwed up family," Santana tries to explain. "We were in glee club together in high school."

"Glee club?" Leigh laughs. "I totally can't picture you in a glee club snapping your fingers in time while singing some catchy oldies. I had you pegged more as a Mean Girl type. Like bitchy cheerleader or Queen Bee."

"Oh, I was that too," Santana explains. For some reason, telling Leigh about her past comes easy. Conversation in general has always been simple with the blonde. She thought that this playful banter would change after what happened on Saturday night.

She doesn’t understand why it feels so easy when everything else ends up being so complicated. Brittany was her best friend from elementary school, but there were plenty of awkward conversations while lying next to one another. She hadn’t wanted to talk about feelings despite Brittany’s attempts - both sly and upfront - to try and make her do so. Quinn is the master of avoidance in all forms and even having basic conversations with her has been like pulling teeth since they crossed the threshold of not being “just friends”.

With Leigh, it feels almost like it had never even happened. There is no awkwardness or shift in their interactions like she thought there was going to be. She didn’t know whether it is supposed to be more than some casual conversation with no mention of the fact that they’re seen one another naked. This is completely new territory for her. Are girls even capable of having sex with no emotional ties whatsoever? They always seem to be making some sort of connection, even if it’s expressed through a kiss or a soft, intentional touch. Leigh doesn’t give off that vibe; she had been playful and attentive without making Santana feel suffocated.

“So you were a bitchy cheerleader AND a musical dork? Did you have to beat yourself up or what?”

“Leigh, we really don’t have to talk about my ridiculous high school extracurricular activities.”

“But I want to hear all about it so I always have some good dirt to use against you as needed,” Leigh teases.

“I meant we don’t have to do this,” Santana clarifies, gesturing between the two of them.

“Do what? Act like we’re friends?” Leigh challenges.

“Aren’t we supposed to deal with what went on between us?” She doesn’t understand how Leigh manages to be so relaxed about all of this.

“Did you have a good time?” Leigh asks, pausing from her cleaning to look at Santana.

“Yeah, of course,” Santana says like she’s trying to reassure Leigh that the sex was good. Really good.

“And are you now head-over-designer-heels in love with me?”

“Leigh, I, uh, you know we’re good friends and -”

“Stop right there,” Leigh interrupts. “I don’t expect you to be in love with me. I don’t expect anything of you at all, actually.”

Santana stands there with her mouth gaping. She’s not used to people being so upfront with where she stands with them. So few people in her life deal with things head on the way Leigh is willing to do. It’s a relief to know that Leigh isn’t making this into something Santana doesn’t want it to be.

“Look, if you don’t want a repeat performance, that’s fine. And if you want to come back with me to my place once these tables are wiped down, I definitely wouldn’t object.”

Santana moves before her mind can catch up with her body. She heads around the bar until she’s standing in front of Leigh. She reaches for Leigh’s shirt and yanks the taller girl into her until lips collide. It’s a strong kiss - one Santana knows is filled with gratitude that at least one thing in her life can be simple.

“Better clean up fast then,” she says with a grin when Leigh breaks the kiss. She grabs her cloth from the bar surface and heads for the first table.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to quasi-suspect for being an awesome beta and friend :)

Despite the fight at Yale, they don’t go back to complete radio silence again. Santana is amazed when the first text comes through shortly after she leaves Leigh’s apartment on Wednesday morning, this time after coffee at Leigh’s kitchen table.

It catches Santana off guard after days of assuming that she had finally destroyed any chance of fixing this friendship. Yet Quinn appears with her nonchalant message, bridging the gap between them.

A girl in my English class competed for Darcy High. Apparently she has all of our magazine covers. I’m not sure if that’s creepy or sweet.

It makes Santana chuckle. Darcy was always one of those easily forgettable performances at Nationals that made you realize that their state obviously had no competition. They stood no chance of being in the same league as Sylvester’s squad, even the year that she, Quinn, and Brittany quit. She never thought that the legacy of being a Cheerio would follow them everywhere, but all of her Louisville teammates knew even before the first day of practice commenced.

Being a Cheerio wasn’t just high school royalty. Anybody that competed in real cheerleading knew exactly who they were. It doesn’t really surprise her that someone at Yale was able to pick up on Quinn having been the face of the squad for so long.

Oh yeah?

It’s a simple response, but all of her witty ones would have come off as bad innuendos and she doesn’t want to upset Quinn when she’s actually trying to be civil.

I just thought you’d enjoy that. Have a good day, San.

Santana wants to respond in a way that will keep the conversation going, but all she can think about is asking how things with Bridget are when she doesn’t really want to know the answer. If she doesn’t ask about Bridget, she’ll try to start apologizing and that’s never how her friendship with Quinn works. The fact that Quinn sent her a text on a topic of no real importance was her way of saying that she’s over their fight. There’s no reason for Santana to push it more when Quinn is telling her things have a chance of being okay between them.

So the weeks go on and she answers Quinn’s random texts about cheerleading and Quinn’s secret society. She keeps the focus on Quinn and doesn’t offer up any information of her own. But really, what does she have to add? She works at a bar and she sleeps with her coworker on occasion when the itch needs to be scratched. Neither one of those things are going to be of any interest in conversation.

When her phone goes off on the coffee table, she’s not completely surprised to see Quinn’s name flashing across the screen. She swipes her thumb across it to answer and walks into her partition in hopes of having a shred of privacy from her roommates.

“Uh, hey,” she says in greeting. She hears Quinn exhale on the other end like she was holding her breath, wondering if Santana would bother taking her call.

“Hi, Santana.” It’s kind of formal, but Santana doesn’t allow herself to analyze it. Quinn must have a reason for calling.

“What’s going on?” Santana responds casually, pulling her curtain away from Rachel’s prying eyes.

“I was just wondering about something.” Quinn takes a deep breath over an extended pause, leaving Santana on edge. Had Quinn talked to Kurt about what she’s been up to? Is she upset over Santana hooking up with other people? That can’t be it since she’s doing exactly the same thing at Yale. “I’m supposed to fly out of Newark next Monday to go back to Lima. But I need to be out of my dorm on Friday so I was thinking that maybe I could crash with you guys for a few days, but only if it’s okay with you.”

Santana’s heart starts racing. Quinn is asking her permission to visit? Why didn’t she just call Rachel if she wanted to stay?

“I would have just asked Rachel, but I didn’t want to just show up if you’re not okay with it. It’s your apartment too.”

“Well, yeah. I mean, it’s fine. Kurt leaves this Thursday and Rachel will be working until the moment she catches her plane on Saturday, so you’d kind of just be stuck with me and I have to work on Saturday night.”

“I can entertain myself, I don’t need you to babysit. I just need a couch to crash on for a couple of nights if it’s alright with you.”

“Yeah, it’s cool.”

“Alright well, I guess I’ll see you on Friday then. Thanks, San, I really appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem. See ya.”

She hangs up and flops back onto her bed. Quinn was coming to spend three days in New York with practically no buffers between them. Part of her wanted to call out of work, but the whole reason she wasn’t going to Lima with her friends is because of work in the first place.

“Knock, knock?” Rachel’s voice rings out uncertainly from outside of Santana’s curtain.

“What?” Santana responds, not bothering to move. Rachel is going to invite herself in anyway.

Sure enough, the curtain gets pulled to the side and Rachel takes a few timid steps into Santana’s space. She looks around at the clothes littering the floor and the collection of coffee mugs on the nightstand before deciding to not scold her.

“Was that Quinn on the phone?” she asks, being her normal tact-lacking self.

“Yeah, she’s staying here for the weekend,” Santana replies, rolling onto her stomach and grabbing her copy of the latest Cosmopolitan from beneath this morning’s half-drunk coffee.

“Why didn’t she ask me if she could come? We have a Skype appointment in approximately an hour anyway.”

Santana rolls her eyes so drastically that it almost hurts. Of course Rachel would be concerned with who Quinn asks. Everything has to be a competition with this girl.

“I don’t freaking know, Rach. Why don’t you just ask her when you two are gabbing about god knows what on your freaking online date?”

“You know, you could be a little nicer, Santana. We’ve been living together for months and we’re still practically strangers. I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to want to be included in these decisions as Quinn is my friend too.”

“Then complain to her.”

Rachel huffs and turns on her heel as she starts to stomp away, but stops at the edge of Santana’s partition. Santana exhales loudly.

“I really thought that after high school that you two would stop acting like you’re too cool to be seen with me. Kurt helped me burn all of my animal sweaters and I’ve become more sexually promiscuous. What am I doing wrong?”

Santana turns her head to look at Rachel. She’s wearing skin-tight black pants and heeled boots with a low cut blouse. It’s about the complete opposite of what high school Rachel would have worn and she can’t deny that her roommate looks good. But it’s still not her issue that Rachel’s self-esteem over Quinn’s acceptance is even worse than it was when she was fifteen.

“Why does it matter to you so much? Quinn just wanted to run stuff by me because I’m the only one that is going to be home for the whole time she needs to be here. You are at the studio pretty much all of the time and won’t be able to see her anyway.”

“It would still be nice to be included in the going-ons within my own apartment!” Rachel yells before the diva storm out really commences.

Santana knows she should chase her down and tell her that they all love her and all that other crap that Finn and Mr. Schue always used to assuage her feelings in high school. She had put up with Rachel’s insane need for scheduling everything in the apartment, from shower times to when vacuuming should occur. She puts away her shoes as soon as she walks in and doesn’t leave meat products on the same shelf of the refrigerator as Rachel’s grass-like vegan food. Most people would have run away from her crazy, controlling ways within the first week and Santana was still here months later. That alone should tell Rachel that they were legitimately friends, whether Santana had chosen to be or not.

But for some reason, living with these losers has made her actually care about hurting people’s feelings. Maybe it was the soft spot she has for Rachel over everything that happened with Brody or the fact that Rachel always makes sure that they have her favorite type of Ben and Jerry’s in the freezer, even when Santana refuses to spend the money on it. Rachel does mean something to her, even if she adamantly refuses to acknowledge it ninety-nine percent of the time.

“Rach!” she calls, pulling herself up from her bed. She feels ridiculous at the notion of even trying to appease Rachel during a diva fit.

She finds Rachel sitting in her bed, eyes puffy from crying and a tissue clenched in her fist.

“What do you want, Santana?” she dismisses, looking away as if she’s going to be able to hide the tear streaks. Santana wants to lecture her on the importance of using waterproof mascara to avoid the hideous black lines that mar her cheeks, but seeing Rachel looking so pathetic over a phone call makes her sigh and do what she came in here for the first place.

“Look, Quinn and I are used to being bitches. It doesn’t mean that we don’t consider you to be a good friend. We just don’t know how to act like those kinds of people.”

It’s a lame excuse. Quinn is known for ability to be incredibly sweet if she’s trying to manipulate someone into doing what she wants. Rachel has been on the receiving end of that particular technique on a few occasions. Santana knows she’s brutally honest despite what it normally does to people’s feelings. But she’s managed to live with Rachel for months and they haven’t had a serious fight since Brody left. And really, it’s because Rachel isn’t nearly as high maintenance as she comes off as to outsiders. She’s caring and thoughtful, she invites Santana to hang out with the NYADA kids whenever she happens to not be working or out with her new friends.

She thinks about all those e-vites she’s declined from Rachel wanting to do mundane activities, like apartment musical laundry (which really is just folding clothes in time with showtunes). Each time she said no via the little e-mail link (when she even remembered to respond) was apparently one more reason for Rachel to think she wasn’t good enough to be Santana’s real friend.

“You’re really a great friend, Rach. And you know that Quinn and I would love it if you could find some time around your rehearsal schedule to hang out with us this weekend.”

“I’m busy,” Rachel states, not bothering to look at her. “Plus I’m sure you’ll want Quinn to meet all of your cool, new friends instead of hanging out around the apartment.”

“Quinn isn’t coming to New York to hang out with my new friends. She’s coming to hang out with us.”

“Why are you doing this, Santana? What’s the point of trying to pretend like you actually would give up any portion of your weekend to stay in when you haven’t done so in weeks?

“You and Kurt have your own lives here! You did before I even arrived and I’m on the outside of everything going on in your life. You have a future! Your show opens on fucking Broadway in 6 weeks, Rachel! Your dreams are coming true and all I have is my ability to make some money at a sleazy bar because I have a nice set of surgically enhanced tits!”

Rachel’s jaw falls open and she stares at Santana like she just announced that Barbra died. Santana doesn’t do vulnerability, especially with someone like Rachel. She looks away from Rachel’s piercing gaze, choosing to focus on the ridiculous pink teddy bear perched on Rachel’s shelf.

“Whatever, if you want to think that I don’t actually give a damn about you, fine. But maybe you should be grateful that I choose to at least put up with you, which is more than I can say for most people.”

Rachel looks like she wants to stop Santana; she wants to keep the wall from going back up between them. Santana is rebuilding it as quickly as she can, refusing to let Rachel see how much of a failure she feels like.

“San,” Rachel starts.

“I don’t need your pity party. Enjoy your little cyber love session with Q. We’ll probably order in when she gets here on Friday. You can join us if you’re not at the theatre. You know, if you want.”

She can’t get away from Rachel fast enough. First she spills her guts to Kurt about all the fucked up mess with Quinn, now she breaks down and tells Rachel how worthless her life is turning out to be.  
Her friends will all be in Lima; some of them will be there just for the weekend because their real lives are too big to take much time off, others will be home for a few weeks as they enjoy the break from the college life. Santana could at least get a weekend off from Coyote Ugly if she wanted to, but she really doesn’t. Going back to Lima and catching up with everybody is just more validation that everybody else’s lives are speeding full force towards great things while hers stands stagnant and undefined. She’s sad about missing Mercedes and Brittany while they’re in Ohio, but staying in New York means avoiding her dad’s questioning about when she’s going to start taking life seriously.

~!~!~!~

As expected, Rachel is at the theatre when Quinn arrives in the early evening on Friday. Santana offers to meet her at Grand Central since she knows that Quinn will be loaded with luggage for her extended stay in Lima, but Quinn refuses to take her up on it and shows up at the door of the loft looking exhausted with her two suitcases and heavy backpack.

Santana helps her drag it all inside before sliding the door closed, leaving the two of them alone in the space once again. She can’t help but let her eyes drag down Quinn; her hair is short again and she has traded her sundress in for a pair of tiny jean shorts and a loose fitting tank top. On her feet are a pair of sensible looking flats, but she looks so grown up and foreign to Santana. It feels like so much has changed about her in the few short weeks since Santana had been at Yale.

“How was the ride?” Santana asks, pulling Quinn’s suitcase into the living room and depositing it next to the couch. Quinn follows her lead and does the same with her other suitcase and her backpack.

“It wasn’t bad. The subway is pretty sweltering in this heat wave though,” Quinn replies, sitting down on the couch with a sigh.

“Yeah, it’s pretty brutal. There also seem to be a million more people now than there was all spring.” Quinn nods politely at her. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“You don’t need to serve me, Santana. I’m perfectly capable of getting my own glass of water while I’m here.”

She gets up from the couch and moves towards the kitchen before Santana can tell her to stop being ridiculous. She watches as Quinn opens three cabinets before she gets to the glasses. It would have taken half the time if she had just let Santana do it for her, but to Quinn that was pretty much the equivalent of depending on someone else.

The evening crawls along with the most awkward of small talk between them. Santana is grateful when she hears Quinn’s stomach growl and she can hop up to retrieve the collection of takeout menus from the drawer. Quinn has no opinions on food and lets Santana pick a place. She gazes over the menu that Santana tosses into her lap and settles quickly on a vegetarian option that Rachel usually favors. Santana raises an eyebrow at her.

“There’s no way Quinnie-pie has gone off of her precious bacon,” Santana teases as though it’s second nature. It used to be, at least.

“I’m not completely vegetarian,” Quinn explains. “I tried to be, but meat and I have too close of a bond for me to sever that relationship entirely.”

Santana laughs and the tension in the room starts to ease a bit. She picks up the phone and dials the number to the Chinese place to put in their order. Quinn shifts on the couch as Santana rambles out the order and gives the address and demands a supply of extra soy sauce.

“I see New York hasn’t helped your manners any,” Quinn deadpans as Santana drops her phone onto the coffee table.

“These are my people,” Santana remarks with a shrug of her shoulders. “They just get me.”

“Well, at least you’ve found a place that you belong then. That’s more than most people can say at the ripe old age of nineteen.”

They graduated high school a year ago. She has had a year to figure out what she wants to do, who she wants to be down the line. And all she has discovered is that New York is full of people moving too fast while they’re perpetually rude, which completely gels with her own behavior.

She doesn’t feel the urge to spill her guts to Quinn about how New York is great, but that she’s so lost within it. Not when Quinn is sitting there, looking so genuinely happy. In all honesty, Santana has only seen her look this way once before and it was only moments before they fell asleep entangled with one another in that hotel room five months ago.

It’s an awkward dinner to say the least. Quinn is babbling on about her classes and how she has decided to major in something that matters. It doesn’t seem like she’s decided what actually matters, but drama is apparently now just her hobby, something that she’ll just do on the side. Santana figures this is the influence of both her secret society and her parents telling her that drama isn’t the way to make a difference in this life. Quinn isn’t one that’s willing to fade into being average when she could be great at something else.

Santana avoids talking about herself as much as possible; instead, she offers up information on Rachel and Kurt where possible, but mostly she just listens as Quinn talks.

She starts fake yawning at ten o’clock, which is way earlier than she ever goes to bed anymore with the bar screwing up her schedule. Quinn seems to get the hint and pulls her toiletries from her bag and excuses herself to the bathroom. In the meantime, Santana changes into pajamas (wearing just her underwear around Quinn would be way more awkward than it is when just Rachel and Kurt are home) and then paces awkwardly until Quinn reappears.

When she finishes with her turn in the bathroom, she comes back to see Quinn sitting on the couch like she’s unsure what to do next.

“Uh, well Rachel probably won’t be home until really late and she’s not very quiet when she gets home. You might want to take Kurt’s room just to avoid her stampeding through the living room while you’re trying to sleep.”

“Is his room safe?” Quinn asks with a smirk.

“If you like satin sheets that two dudes roll around in every night, then it’s perfectly safe. I didn’t say anything about how sanitary it might be though.” Quinn wrinkles her nose at the image and Santana chuckles. She can’t blame Quinn for being wary of sleeping in there. For someone so obsessed with how he looks, Kurt is kind of a pig in other regards.

“I think I’m safer on the couch,” Quinn decides. “My roommate is a night owl, I’m used to the noise anyway.”

“I don’t think anybody is at Berry’s decibel level while she goes through her nightly moisturizing regimen. And your back is still messed up. You take my bed and I’ll sleep out here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m fine on a couch for a couple of nights.”

“Oh stop being so stoic. My bed is so comfortable that it destroys the need to rub one out before you pass out.” She wants to laugh at how red Quinn’s cheeks get. “Not that the good little Quinn does something so immoral.”

Quinn still refuses to look at her and starts to pull her pillow from her bag.

“Do you have a blanket that I can borrow?” she asks, ignoring Santana’s comments altogether.

“Just take the bed, Q. I basically live on this couch these days anyway.”

Quinn gives in finally, realizing that Santana isn’t going to stop. Santana follows her into her curtained area and retrieves her pillow and a spare blanket.

“Sweet dreams, Q,” she says, pulling the curtain closed behind her.

It’s after one in the morning when Rachel finally gets home from rehearsal. Santana, being the light sleeper that she is, wakes at the door sliding closed, but she just burrows deeper underneath the blanket.

The light on Rachel’s nightstand flicks on and she shields her eyes from it. 

“Santana? Why on earth are you in my bed? And you’re drooling all over Danny Zuko!”

Her voice is loud and piercing and it’s all Santana can do to not throw a pillow at her face.

“Kurt’s bed is full of man juice,” she mumbles, her voice muffled by the fluffy down comforter. “And does your pink bear tell you that you’re the one that he wants so that you sleep better at night?”

“Leave Danny alone,” Rachel pouts. “And what’s wrong with your own bed?”

“Quinn’s in it.”

“Since when does a girl being in your bed mean that you can’t be in your bed?”

“Rachel, it’s too fucking late for this lovely interrogation. Brush your teeth, do your ridiculous ice facial, put on your tiny booty shorts, and come cuddle because frankly, Mr. Zuko sucks at it.”

She rolls over and buries her head under her pillow, making it known that she’s done conversing. Rachel actually does listen to her for everything except the cuddling. She rips her bear out of Santana’s grip and rolls away from her without so much as a muttered goodnight. But one half of Rachel’s bed is a million times better than the lumpy couch or Kurt’s bed, so Santana doesn’t complain at all.

~!~!~!~

“You’re welcome to come with me. Saturday nights are super crazy so I doubt I’ll actually get a chance to talk to you, but the booze is good and the atmosphere is fun.”

“Won’t you get in trouble for bringing underaged friends to work with you?” Quinn asks as she paws through her suitcase for something to wear.

“Last I checked, you were Emily Stark from Hawaii, here in the Big Apple with a dream of making it big. As long as you don’t get in the way of the male patrons thinking they have a chance with me, it’s totally cool.”

Convincing Quinn to come hang at the bar instead of staying at the apartment alone was easier that she thought it was going to be. She figured Quinn would have found a lame excuse so that she could call her new girlfriend and they could whisper sweet nothings to one another all night.

Instead, Quinn is shifting nervously in her seat on the subway, tugging at her short skirt and glaring at any guy that dares to look in her direction. Santana internally smiles because even though Quinn loves her life of playing rich girl in the suburbs, she looks damn good in New York.

The bar is starting to fill up when they walk in and Santana points Quinn to one of the only empty stools at the far end before she drops her stuff off and slips behind the bar to prep for her shift. Quinn is taking in the endlessly tacky decor and it makes Santana wish that she could slide in next to her and hear a running commentary of her judgmental thoughts.

The crowd picks up almost as soon as she finishes stacking the shot glasses and she tries to catch Quinn’s eye as she starts pouring beers, but the blonde is engaged with some random dude trying to buy her a drink.

Ashten works in her typical frenzied fashion and charms the men into large tips just on her smile alone. Leigh, as always, prefers to make work into her personal entertainment. She flirts with the customers as she opens their beer bottles, she accepts the shots from men with practiced ease, and she finds a way to grope Santana’s ass every time they have to pass by one another.

By the time the place is completely packed, Santana is riding the high that comes from a couple shots of tequila and the pace of her job. Leigh pulls her up onto the bar as the volume of the music becomes almost deafening, signaling that it’s time for them to dance.

Santana loves this part of the night: having all eyes on her for her talent. Granted, she knows in reality at least seventy-five percent of the attention comes from how low cut her tank top is, but the rush of performing never fades for her. It starts as a silly line dance with tapping boots in rhythm with the song blaring from the sound system, but as the crowd starts to engage, the moves get raunchier and they stray from the choreography.

Leigh is on her left and she moves with the grace of a trained dancer, Santana watches her while she moves herself, letting her hips sway and thrust seductively through the air. Leigh’s eyes close as she moves, her body is completely controlled by the music flowing through her. Santana tries to follow her lead of complicated steps with some ass-shaking thrown in for good measure, but she fails miserably. None of the customers seem to notice or care as they are still wolf-whistling at the three of them dancing on the bar.

When the song winds down, people storm the bar to get their drinks refilled and Leigh hops down first, offering Santana her hand which she gratefully takes as she slides off the weathered wood. Leigh slaps her ass playfully as she moves towards the first group of men and Santana catches Quinn’s eye just as it happens. Quinn looks away bashfully, her eyes scanning the crowded room.

The rest of the night proceeds the same way: Santana pours beers and shots for men at least ten years older than her, she performs on the bar top at random intervals, and she catches Quinn watching her more than she had expected.

After the front door is locked and the lights are turned up, Leigh wanders down to where Quinn is still sitting at the end of the bar. Santana watches them carefully from where she’s washing glasses.

“Hey there,” Leigh says, leaning on the bar so she’s eye level with Quinn.

“Uh, hi,” Quinn replies, her eyes flitting over to where Santana is standing. Santana smiles down into the sink and doesn’t rescue Quinn from Leigh. She’ll be harmless anyway once she figures out Quinn’s connection to Santana.

“What brings you in tonight? Santana’s fine ass isn’t worth hours of being hit on by grimy men.”

“Just felt like getting out,” Quinn comments. Santana can feel her gaze falling on her ass now that Leigh pointed it out. These shorts do definitely help her assets, if she does say so herself. They help pay the bills on busy nights like this one.

“I was starting to think that Santana was just pretending to have other friends,” Leigh comments with a laugh. “But now I understand, she just didn’t want to share how beautiful they are.”

“Uh...” Quinn seems stunned by how forward Leigh is being. “I don’t live in New York, actually,” Quinn comments. Santana disguises her snort with a loud cough.

“You’re not the famous Funny Girl Rachel?” Leigh asks, taking a step back from the bar. Quinn laughs and shakes her head.

“I can’t even imagine Rachel stepping foot into this establishment, to be honest. I’m Quinn.”

Leigh looks directly at Santana, who is making a point of pretending to look busy.

“Well, it’s a pleasure, Quinn. I’ve heard so much about you,” Leigh purrs.

“Hey, Q, can you help me put these stools up?” Santana calls, offering Quinn an out before Leigh can have a chance to share how much she really knows about Quinn.

Quinn takes it and hops up from her own seat, striding across the room to where Santana is already lifting the stools up onto the bar. When the place is cleaned up, Ashten shouts a goodbye and runs for the train, hoping to catch her boyfriend before he falls asleep. Leigh walks over to the pair of them with her leather jacket slung over her shoulder. It’s way too hot to actually wear it, but Santana is convinced that she just carries it to maintain her badass image sometimes.

“It was so nice to finally meet you, Quinn,” Leigh says sweetly, holding her hand out. Quinn shakes it before letting her hand drop quickly back to her side.

“I’ll see you Monday,” she says to Santana, leaning in to peck her on the cheek. “Have fun tonight,” she whispers quickly against Santana’s ear before straightening back up. Santana has never been more glad that she doesn’t really blush obviously.

They have just missed the subway when they walk down the stairs into the humid, underground station. Santana throws herself onto the bench and wishes her commute was shorter because after eight hours of dancing and running around behind the bar, she wants to be out of her boots and passed out in her bed.

Quinn sits down next to her and makes no attempt to talk to an obviously exhausted Santana. Santana can see that she has things on her mind, that she has questions that are fighting to stay on the tip of her tongue. She’s grateful that Quinn keeps them to herself, even if only for tonight.

~!~!~!~

The weather is beautiful on Monday morning and Santana wakes up earlier than usual. Rachel is already gone; she went straight to the airport from rehearsal last night. Santana is in her bed, though without Danny Zuko to cuddle with (Santana figured he got to take the trip to Lima with Rachel), it’s not quite as comfortable as it had been the night before.

Quinn is standing in the living room, gazing out the window out at the dirty street of Brooklyn. There’s nothing magical about the view from this location; it’s definitely not the one Santana had imagined she would have once she was living in New York. There’s a cleaners and a corner store directly across the street, their awnings fading and on the verge of collapse. It’s not spectacular but it’s become home in a way that Lima never was. 

“Enjoying the view of trash and cockroaches?” Santana teases, walking up beside Quinn.

“It’s got charm in its own little twisted way,” she replies. “It’s not a natural beauty, but there’s something about it that makes it beautiful anyway.”

Santana gets that. She’s gotten used to how grimy the neighborhood feels, but underneath the wear and tear of generations, there’s something special about Bushwick. Santana pushes open the window and climbs through to sit on the fire escape. A couple of minutes later Quinn joins, camera in hand.

She pulls out the heavy looking black device and plays with the lens, focusing at a point down the street. Santana watches her hands move deftly over the controls of the camera, lost in her own little world. She stays quiet and still, not wanting to ruin the moment.

It’s fifteen minutes later before Quinn puts the camera back into the bag. She zips it closed and leans back against the brick building, her feet extended in front of her.

“Since when do you walk around with fancy cameras like some sort of professional?” Santana asks. It feels like she hardly knows this girl that used to be one of her closest friends.

“It’s just a hobby I picked up from some of my Yale friends,” Quinn explains. 

“Does your girlfriend like photography?” Santana can’t help herself. Quinn’s radio silence on her relationship since Santana’s trip to New Haven has been driving her crazy. If they’re supposed to be friends, then they should be able to talk about these things.

“What do you mean?” Quinn asks, her brow furrowed. Santana just stares, waiting for an actual response. “Oh, Bridget? We’re not dating.”

“Oh, yeah? You were pretty into her when I came to visit.” Santana isn’t buying it.

“We had some fun, Santana. She lives in Florida and is spending the summer there. I haven’t even spoken to her since she left at the end of the semester and I don’t really plan on doing so.”

Santana contemplates this. Did Quinn actually have a casual fling that could just end because the semester ran out? If it was so relaxed and didn’t seem to mean anything, how come she hadn’t mentioned that to Santana about it in all of these weeks?

“Is there something wrong?” Quinn inquires, her head cocked almost in concern.

“Uh, no. Nothing. Feel like playing tourist today?” Santana asks, changing the subject altogether. She shouldn’t feel so uplifted at the fact that Quinn is single and asked to spend a few days with Santana alone. They’re just friends. Friends that had fun together once or twice. But that’s it. Quinn made it very clear that it was all just a big, fun experiment on her path to greater things. Santana knows that she’s worth more than just being the stop along the way that helps Quinn figure out her shit.

With that mindset, the day ends up actually being fun. Quinn seems happy and relaxed. They laugh and chat and enjoy one another’s company in a way that they haven’t done since Christmas break. If nothing else, Santana is glad to actually have her friend back.

They stop at the farmer’s market on their way back to Bushwick and spend the evening cooking together. Santana basically sucks at anything that isn’t macaroni and cheese while Quinn can spin even the simplest ingredients into something mouth watering. Santana takes Quinn’s orders to chop vegetables and measure out spices while Quinn stands over the stove with three different pans all cooking at once.

It turns into the best stir fry Santana has ever tasted. She sets the table and lights the candle that sits in the middle. It feels silly at first, until she reminds herself that Rachel does the same thing when they’re having dinner together, and they are most definitely nothing more than friends. She opens a bottle of wine and pours two glasses, setting them on the table.

So it looks romantic. And maybe she’s really okay with that. Because Quinn just smiles when she sees it set up as she carries the plates of food out to join Santana. They sit across from one another, eating slowly as talking keeps getting in the way.

Santana feels more at ease than she remembers being in a long time. After dinner, she leaves the dishes stacked in the sink as a problem for another day, and heads into the living room with the bottle of wine. Quinn is curled up on one end of the couch, her wine glass resting on her knee and her head obviously lost in thought.

She doesn’t want to disturb her, not when Quinn looks so peaceful. It’s refreshing to see the lack of worry lines on her forehead, the tenseness of her muscles having melted away. Quinn has always been someone that Santana was envious of, but at the same time was glad that it wasn’t her life that Quinn was living. She’s brilliant and beautiful, but she also has the familial pressure and the teenage pregnancy and the expectations that no regular person could ever live up to. It hasn’t been easy for Quinn at all, but being away at Yale has done something good for her self-acceptance.

“How does it feel to be a college sophomore?”

“It feels like I’m just ready for the fall semester to start. I don’t want to be back in Lima. That place is just filled with everything I want to forget about my past.”

Santana knows the feeling well. It’s pretty much main reason that she declined all invitations to return with Kurt or Rachel for a visit. She knows her parents miss her and Lima isn’t all bad memories for her. But she has no interest in returning there the way so many of her friends do. Plus, it’s not like she’s returning with stories of her success the way most of them are. Quinn at least has that advantage on her side.

Lima feels like an old memory, one that is tainted by that ad that changed her life as she knew it. And maybe it was a good thing because otherwise she might have never made the decision to leave Louisville to come to New York. That ad forced her to look at her life and deal with all of the things she had kept trying to sweep under the carpet.

So now she’s in touch with herself and the fact that she loves women. But what difference does that make in the scheme of things? She’s a bartender without a path into a real future. Her dreams feel more flattened with every passing day, like there’s no real chance that she could actually be that one in a million that some agent finds on the street. Maybe she’s not destined for fame. Maybe she’s not destined for anything more than a series of semi-exciting adventures.  
But Quinn is. Quinn has her whole life filled with escaping from the black hole that was her life in Lima. She’s going to have her dreams come true and she’s going to be able to leave a legacy that will blot out her teenage pregnancy and her crazy punk stage and all of her insane, fucked up swings in personality.

Quinn seems to sense Santana’s anxiety about her future and instead she focuses on other things: her newfound love of photography, how the professor got busted for sleeping with another freshman girl. Santana is happy to listen and Quinn is happy to tell her about all of the things she’s learned in her new collegiate life.

The bottle of wine disappears slowly and Santana finds herself with her feet propped in Quinn’s lap as they debate social issues and current events. Quinn is much more informed on practically everything, but Santana doesn’t try to prove her wrong. It’s a connection they’ve never had before: this ability to talk without trying to outdo the other, and Santana is glad to learn from Quinn without competing for once.

When Quinn starts yawning, Santana realizes how tired she is herself. Quinn gets ready for bed first and is sitting on Santana’s bed when she gets back from washing her face and brushing her teeth. Rachel’s bed doesn’t seem nearly as enticing as it has when she wanted to keep a firm distance between her and Quinn.

“Mind if I bunk in here with you?” She’s already halfway under her comforter. Quinn doesn’t respond, but she flicks the switch on the lamp and crawls up the bed beside Santana. Maybe it’s the wine, but Santana can feel her heartbeat pick up as Quinn’s warm body settles in beside her.

So the attraction is still there. She didn’t expect it to just fade away after all of these years, but it hits her hard as Quinn faces her, their noses only half a foot apart on their respective pillows.

“Night, Q,” Santana whispers.

“Goodnight.”

Their eyes are still locked on one another, like the words aren’t enough before they can roll over and drift away to sleep. Santana makes a split second decision despite the fact that she can actually feel in her bones how she’s probably going to regret it by the time the sun rises. Her faces moves forward, sliding onto the edge of Quinn’s pillow. Their noses graze, and Quinn’s breath is hot on her cheeks. She leans forward before she can change her mind.

Quinn’s lips are soft and warm. It’s just a simple goodnight kiss that doesn’t even last a breath before she’s pulling away again.

But then Quinn’s fist is gripping her t-shirt and is pulling her back in. Santana wants to resist; the little voice in the back of her mind is telling her that this is going to just end up like every other time with Quinn has. She doesn’t want to suffer and be heartbroken and lose the friendship they’ve finally managed to build.

Yet as Quinn’s tongue comes out to swipe across her lip, she sighs against it and opens her own mouth. Quinn tastes like toothpaste and she kisses like there’s nothing standing between them. It’s no longer a goodnight kiss between friends with blurred lines. And as badly as Santana wants to kiss every inch of Quinn’s skin, the ache in her chest forces herself to pull away.

Quinn tries to kiss her neck as she holds onto the moment, her hand still gripping the front of Santana’s shirt. Santana pulls away, prying the fingers from her so she can put some space between them before she loses her nerve.

“Quinn, I can’t,” she says simply, though it’s almost painful to let the words out. She wants Quinn, she’s always wanted Quinn. But Quinn isn’t willing to give her what she actually needs from her. She might not even be capable of being that person to Santana, even if she wants to.

Quinn sighs, resigned in the fact that she knows Santana is right, that they shouldn’t be doing this when they can barely talk about their personal lives. The fight when Santana was in New Haven is still an open wound that needs a lot more than a couple of weeks without discussing the situation to heal.

Santana rolls over before she can renege on her promise to herself to not let Quinn hurt her with this screw-up friends with benefits routine that they’re so close to falling into. Sleep doesn’t come easily and she listens to Quinn’s uneven breathing, which tells her that she’s not the only one having a sleepless night.

They wake up early to go to the airport and Santana makes a point of avoiding the awkwardness that has the potential to form between them. There are no apologies or explanations; just an offer of coffee and casual conversation to remind them both that they can be friends despite whatever other crap is going on between them. It’s taken a long time to get to this point, but Santana knows that she needs her friend first.

The subway ride is a quiet one, but Santana does it willingly, wanting to make sure that Quinn gets off safely before she goes to work that evening. The airport is busy and loud for a Monday morning, and Santana waits patiently as Quinn gets checked in and then she walks her up to the security line, which is as far as she can go without a boarding pass.

“Will you be back in New York before the end of the summer,” she asks, realizing they haven’t discussed Quinn’s plans at all. 

“I’m not sure yet, but I’ll probably want to get out of Lima at some point before the semester starts. So maybe.” 

“Well have a safe flight. Say hi to the glee dorks for me.”

“I will,” Quinn promises, adjusting the strap on her backpack. “Thanks, San.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

Quinn moves in with her arms spread to hug Santana goodbye. Santana moves into them and squeezes Quinn tightly, trying to convey her appreciation for her friend.

She pulls away after a long moment and she sees Quinn leaning in, her eyes starting to close. In a panic, she turns her cheek and Quinn’s lips brush it before she snaps back when she realizes Santana is declining her move. Quinn’s cheeks redden and she stumbles backwards a few paces.

“I’ll talk to you soon,” she mumbles with a quick wave and she joins the security line.

Santana looks dumbfounded for a minute, her heart pounding. Being just friends is turning out to be a lot harder than she thought. She waits as Quinn zigzags through the line before finally heading through the metal detector. She gives Santana one more furtive glance over her shoulder before she disappears from sight.


	9. Chapter 9

Going to work that night after dropping Quinn at the airport is about the last thing Santana feels like doing. She’s kind of hungover and she’s all kinds of confused as to what’s going on with Quinn. But it’s too late to call out and Mondays aren’t usually that busy, so it should be an easy shift at least.

Her hair is up in a ponytail and her tank top isn’t as low cut as the ones she normally favors for work. Being ogled by drunk, older men just doesn’t hold the appeal to her right now, even if it’s her way to earn some decent tips.

Leigh, on the other hand, is wearing a new pair of brown cowboy boots, jean shorts that are so tiny they should be illegal, and a shirt cut so low that Santana can hardly pull her eyes away from the expanse of cleavage.

“My eyes are up here, gorgeous,” Leigh teases, causing Santana to stiffen with the embarrassment of being caught.

Flirting with Leigh was usually the best part of working, especially when it was slow and they actually had time to talk. Tonight felt different somehow; Leigh’s hands didn’t find her waist nearly as often and conversations stuck around what the weather looked like and how much Leigh was dreading her parents’ visit at the end of the month. The innuendos that usually had Santana biting the inside of her cheek were absent and she finds herself wondering what has caused the shift between them.

“Feel like coming back to my place?” Santana asks, catching up to Leigh as she heads for the door of the bar after their shift is over. Leigh stops, her hand resting on the door. Santana shifts her weight between the balls of her feet, feeling uncomfortable under Leigh’s searching glance.

“Your place?” Leigh questions. She understands most of Leigh’s confusion; they never go to Santana’s due to the presence of her roommates, the lack of actual walls, and the fact that it’s a fucking hike to Bushwick.

Santana shrugs, trying to act indifferent. 

“Who am I to turn up a chance to rifle through a future Broadway star’s underwear drawer?” Leigh replies and pushes the door open, holding it for Santana to pass through.

“You are not going through my roommate’s underwear drawer. Plus, she keeps her dirty secrets in a container under her bed.”

Leigh gives a hearty laugh as she strolls next to Santana, her hands shoved into the tiny pockets of her shorts.

“I was talking about you, not your almost-famous roommate.” Santana stops in her tracks, causing Leigh to pause.

“I don’t want to be on Broadway. That lame musical theatre crap isn’t for me.” She knows she’s coming off defensive, but there’s only been a tiny instant that she even considered a future on a stage like that. But those dreams died when she realized that the chances of two girls that look different from the conventional famous beauty from the same cow town making it into the same spotlight were pretty much impossible. Broadway has always been calling Rachel. It has been Rachel’s dream since she was a toddler and Santana stands no chance in a sea of Rachel clones.

“Sorry, I just figured the big move to New York to live with a couple of NYADA’s elite meant you had similar dreams.”

Santana ponders this. She never really thought how her situation might look to an outsider. Anybody from Lima would know that she has dreams of fame, but they were not on a Broadway stage. Broadway was one of those things that people were bred for from an early age, not something that someone just decides to do when they realize how much they actually hate cheerleading and don’t want to be stuck doing it for another three years just to get a college degree. It makes sense, however; she headed to New York on her search for fame rather than to L.A. with Mercedes.

Leigh follows her onto the train and they sit in silence for most of the ride to Bushwick. It feels more uncomfortable than their usual silences and Santana feels antsy to be behind closed doors where she can fill those silences with her mouth on Leigh’s body instead.

She does exactly that once she unlocks the sliding door to the loft. There is no tour of the apartment. She kisses Leigh hard right inside of the door and doesn’t stop as they stumble their way across the apartment and onto her bed.

Despite the awkwardness of their interactions all evening, kissing Leigh hasn’t changed a bit. There’s no hesitation, no murmured words of affection against collarbones as they rip one another’s clothes off. It’s a physical connection that Santana has never been more grateful for - her mind feels clear while her body reacts to Leigh’s every touch.

It doesn’t take long before Leigh has her pinned to the bed, her hands held down tightly on either side of her body as the blonde kisses a trail down her breastbone. Santana squirms, but Leigh just smirks against her skin and holds her tighter until Santana finally relinquishes the last shreds of control.

She doesn’t regret it when Leigh’s mouth starts working against her, driving her crazy with every caress. The stress falls away as the heat courses from her core out to her extremities. Every nerve ending feels alive, from where Leigh’s hands are gripping at her wrists to her sweat-soaked skin presses against the sheets. She craves to grip Leigh’s head, her fingers tangling in blonde waves that cascade over Leigh’s shoulders. The lack of control gives her a fleeting feeling of vulnerability, but there’s something undeniably sexy about the whole scene and she makes eye contact with Leigh who is nestled at the apex of her thighs, holding the gaze as long she can before her release washes over her. Her eyes clamp down as the moans escape from her chest. Fingers grip at the sheets, balling them in her fists, knuckles turning white.

It’s not until she’s limp on the mattress that Leigh relinquishes her grip on Santana’s wrists. She climbs back up the bed and lays by Santana’s side, giving her a little space between their naked bodies. 

Santana tries to bridge the gap, anxious for her turn to regain some control. Leigh lets her kiss her, but as she begins to slide her hands down, Leigh’s hands cover them and pull them away gently. Confused, Santana breaks the kiss and looks at her.

“I’m fine tonight,” Leigh comments, sliding back a few inches towards the edge of the bed. “I was really just here to check out that underwear drawer.”

Neither of them laugh at her attempt to lighten the mood. Santana knows she should feel lucky that her booty call is perfectly fine with getting her off and then leaving without any reciprocation, but, in reality, it feels kind of shitty.

“Did I do something, or...?” Santana questions, reaching for the blanket to cover up her body. It’s hard enough to ignore the fact that Leigh is very naked without feeling exposed too.

“I probably shouldn’t have come over in the first place. You have enough shit on your plate with your long distance girlfriend.”

“Quinn is not my girlfriend,” Santana defends. True, it’s not from her lack of trying with Quinn. And maybe Quinn is trying a little harder to figure out whatever the hell is going on between them, but they are most definitely not dating. They’re not even hooking up.

“You don’t see my friends hanging at the bar while I work. She spent the whole night fending off hot, single men while watching your ass perform on a bar top. That girl is a lot more than a friend or fuck buddy, whether you want to acknowledge it or not.”

Santana wants to throw her walls up and tell Leigh that she has it all completely wrong. It’s her normal response when someone hits a little too close to the nerve. But Leigh is her closest friend in New York and is someone that doesn’t really know Quinn. She’s her only person that might actually understand how completely fucked up it all is.

“Can we talk about this some other time when you’re not naked and looking incredibly fucking hot in my bed?”

“You can’t use sex to avoid your problems forever, Santana,” Leigh warns, but she doesn’t shrug off Santana’s hands this time as they grab her ass and pull her in.

“Save the serious conversations for when there are clothes involved,” Santana murmurs against Leigh’s collarbone, nipping at it playfully. Leigh giggles and it sounds more lighthearted than she’s been all night.

“If you think you’re topping me, you’re out of your fucking mind, baby lesbian.”

Santana doesn’t object when she ends up pinned to the bed again for round two.

~!~!~!~

“Oh my god!” Kurt’s shriek pierces her ears and she jumps up from her bed where she was sound asleep only moments ago.

“Where’s the fire?” she asks, rubbing her tired eyes. Leigh had left at like five in the morning, but it couldn’t even be eight yet. “Why are you even back already?”

Kurt is still standing outside of her partition, his hands covering his eyes.

“Can you please put some clothes on, Santana?”

She looks down to see that the sheets are pushed off to the side and Kurt is getting a full, unrestricted display of her assets. She laughs and climbs off the bed in search of some clothes.

“It’s not like my lady parts are going to attack you,” Santana jokes through a yawn. She pulls on a t-shirt and a pair of underwear. “Coast is clear.” 

He slowly pries his hands away from his eyes and sighs in relief when he sees that she’s mostly covered.

“We leave you alone for a few short days and this is what happens? What is going on with you, Santana?”

“You’re not supposed to be back for another two weeks, Lady,” Santana reminds him. “I gots to take advantage of my uninhibited nudity when you freaks are gone.”

Kurt moves into the room and paws at her comforter with caution before folding it over the sheets and sitting primly like he’s afraid to catch a disease.

“Something came to my attention while in Lima and I thought you might need me back here.” 

Santana stops fidgeting enough to focus on him.

“What could be so important that I’d need you running back here to save me from it?” Santana inquires.

Kurt takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly before he begins.

“Quinn told Rachel all about your torrid love affair at the wedding and the subsequent encounters, including how you snubbed her at the airport on Monday. Apparently there were a lot of tears and Rachel is gearing up to interfere like she always does. Try to not kill her, Santana. Her heart is in the right place and she cares about you just as much as she cares about Quinn, even if she doesn’t do well at showing that sometimes.”

Santana tries to process this. Quinn, who told Santana quite clearly that this all meant nothing, had a break down to Santana’s roommate. It was one thing for Santana to talk to Kurt because he wasn’t all that close with Quinn. But Rachel lives with her and she talks to Quinn every day. She’s way too involved with both of them for this to end up well. Quinn could have chosen anybody else: a glee club friend, a friend from Yale, yet she picked Rachel fucking Berry to spill her guts out to.

“Why would I kill Rachel?” Santana asks through gritted teeth.

“You just know how Rachel can get. And you haven’t said anything about all of this to her despite living with her for months. She had to find out from Quinn losing her shit over you not kissing her in a crowded airport.”

“It’s none of Rachel’s fucking business anyway! This is only between Quinn and I, despite what all you gossip queens think.”

Kurt sighs, knowing that any attempt to dispute it will just make Santana more irate.

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he tells her, standing up from the bed.

~!~!~!~

Santana is eating Cap’n Crunch on the couch in her pajamas two days later when Rachel approaches her. She doesn’t bother to turn her attention away from the marathon of Full House that she’s been watching for the past two hours. Rachel coughs in her passive aggressive way of trying to get Santana to focus on her.

When Santana continues to ignore her as she munches loudly on the cereal, Rachel finally gets up and grabs the remote, making the screen go black with the click of a button.

“What the fuck, Rach? I was watching that,” Santana complains, slamming her nearly empty bowl down on the coffee table.

“We haven’t had an opportunity to speak since I returned from Lima. In all honesty, it feels like you’re going out of your way to not be around when I am home.”

Santana rolls her eyes and reaches for the remote, but Rachel is too quick for her.

“Are you just here to cry some more about how we’re not all besties?”

“I’m concerned about you,” Rachel tries. Santana has to admit that she at least sounds sincere, but that could really just be her acting skills in practice.

“I don’t need whatever pity you’re planning on tossing my way,” Santana states, trying to close whatever opening Rachel believes exists. It’s none of her damn business as to what is going on between her and Quinn. She keeps telling herself that there’s nothing between them, that they’re friends that are finally back on the right track. Friends don’t kiss goodnight the way they did in her bed, however. 

Nonetheless, she doesn’t owe Rachel any sort of explanation.

“Well, this isn’t just about you. Quinn is hurting and you’re sitting here like none of it even matters.”

“That’s because it doesn’t, Berry. Don’t pretend like you have any understanding of what’s going on between Quinn and I. And why don’t you just try to keep your enormous beak out of my business for once?”

She gets up and grabs the half-eaten bowl of soggy cereal. She empties it and slams the bowl into the sink before stalking past where Rachel is standing, mouth still gaping.

She misses the statement that a slammed door makes. There’s no way to really show her level of anger with the constant meddling of her roommate through the swing of a curtain.

Rachel hovers all day until Santana finally can’t take it. She tries to text Leigh first, but she gets a response that Leigh is busy tonight. Ashten, however, is more than willing to go out. Santana’s mood lightens a fraction as she picks out an outfit that she can guarantee will turn heads.

She makes a point to strut through the living room with her clutch tucked under her arm while Kurt and Rachel are watching some cooking show. She can feel their eyes on her and the attention is oddly satisfying, even if it’s from a straight girl and a gay man. If she can get their attention in this dress, hopefully the same will go for some single, attractive woman at the bar.

Ashten greets her cheerfully with a kiss to her cheek outside the bar. She has a couple of her other friends with her and they say a pleasant hello before they head inside. It’s already pretty crowded considering how early it is and Santana follows Ashten through the crowd to the bar.

Her eyes scan the two bartenders, both busty blondes wearing low cut shirts and flirtatious smiles. She watches as the one closest to her pours a mixed drink with way too much mixer. Obviously this bar is going more for the easy cash than the incredibly intoxicated patrons. 

She orders a beer and a shot of tequila to get the night started. She watches the bartender’s ass as she walks away and wonders how many people have done the same to her while she works. She turns instead to survey the crowd. Ashten’s little group of friends are already on the dance floor, beer bottles and pink concoctions clutched in their hands. Ashten pays for her own drink and waits for Santana.

They push through the crowd together and Ashten grabs her hand to lead her over to dance. They’re dancing pretty closely together, a little bit of space between them and Ashten’s other friends. Ashten moves fluidly with a decent amount of rhythm, but she’s nowhere near Brittany’s level of grace. Santana scans the room over Ashten’s shoulder, picking out the pretty girls that look like they might be single.

“What’s the deal with you and Leigh anyway?” Ashten shouts in her ear over the pounding of the music.

“There is no deal. We’re just friends,” Santana yells back, shrugging her shoulders.

“You two would make a cute couple,” Ashten comments casually.

Santana chooses to not respond. She’s really had enough of everybody being concerned with her romantic entanglements. Her eyes move right over the blondes and onto the darker haired women. She’s had her share of blondes lately and tonight is about forgetting about all the other crap on her plate. So somebody that looks nothing like any of the girls she’s slept with would be ideal.

There’s a girl in the far corner with shiny black hair that frames her face in loose waves. Her skin is a flawless mocha in the dimly lit bar and Santana can feel herself drawn to this complete stranger immediately.

Ashten seems to catch her gaze fixating on a target.

“Good luck,” she says into Santana’s ear and she squeezes her shoulder before moving to join her friends and leaving Santana to try and formulate a game plan.

Picking up girls is a new territory for her. She’s been fortunate that she’s never really had to chase after girls. But this is a new leaf to turn over; it’s a new experience that was part of the reason for moving to this gigantic city in the first place. 

The other girl doesn’t seem to notice her approaching and Santana can’t decide if this is a blessing or a curse. It gives her a chance to get an up-close glance before she’s sidling up to the girl’s side.

“Hey, can I buy you a drink?” Santana blurts loudly, leaning in a little bit too close to the stranger’s ear. The girl turns and takes a half-step back to assess who is approaching her. Santana tries to not fidget as she feels the girl’s eyes rake along her body before meeting her eyes.

“I’m pretty much full,” the girl comments, a shy smile playing at her lips. She holds up her beer bottle that looks like it’s only missing a couple of sips. Santana feels embarrassed.

“Then maybe a dance until you need a refill?” Santana tries. “You know, only if you want to though.” It’s a quick follow up. She doesn’t want to be that girl at the bar that can’t take a hint and ends up making a person feel uncomfortable.

“New to the lesbian scene?” the girl asks, the smile genuine. “Pretty impressive that you picked me out as the sapphic type in a crowded straight bar.”

Santana straights her shoulders and looks right into the girl’s eyes. “I have really refined gaydar. And not new to the scene, no. Just new to New York.”

The girl gives a small nod of acknowledgment before moving a little closer.

“Well, you might need a bigger game to run this scene compared to whatever you did in your little cow town. But you’re hot and I’m willing to throw a bone to someone that chooses to flirt with me in a room of exceptionally beautiful women.”

Santana’s not really sure if she should be insulted, but she lets the girl lead her into the middle of the dance floor anyway. The girl’s hips move almost as well as Brittany’s and Santana finds herself mildly impressed.

“Are you a dancer?” she asks, trying to make some sort of genuine conversation.

“Only for fun,” the girl responds. “I’m Eva, by the way.”

“Santana.”

The music is too loud to allow for any real conversation, but with the way Eva is moving, Santana is mesmerized anyway. Dancing has always been primarily been Brittany’s thing, but Santana enjoys it. Especially here, with the lights turned down really low and a beautiful girl grinding into her, Santana is appreciative for her natural rhythm.

A few songs go by before Eva signals that her drink is empty and holds her hand out to Santana. She takes it and they weave through the tight crowd, pushing their way up to the bar. Santana drains the last few gulps of her own beer and deposits the empty bottle on the bar while they wait for the waitress.

Eva is in front of her and she orders them each a beer while Santana scrambles in her clutch to find her debit card. Eva waves her off and pulls a crumpled bill out of the back pocket of her jeans, which she hands to the bartender with a wink.

As they head back onto the dance floor, Ashten comes over and taps on Santana’s shoulder.

“We’re going to head to another bar to meet up with some people. Are you okay here or do you want to come?”

Santana glances at Eva, who is already moving to the beat, her eyes sparkling and carefree.

“I’m good,” Santana assures her friend and they kiss on the cheek before Ashten disappears again to meet up with her friends.

“You must really think you’re getting lucky if you’re ditching your friends,” Eva teases, pulling Santana close enough that her warm breath tickles Santana’s neck.

Santana laughs but doesn’t know how to respond because the truth is that leaving with Eva is definitely part of her game plan tonight. And if it’s not Eva, then hopefully it’ll be another girl that will be a forgotten name in the morning.

“Or maybe I just enjoy dancing with a beautiful woman that can actually move with a beat,” Santana retorts with a cheekish grin.

“Who said you can’t have both?” Eva points out, turning her face so that they’re grinding eye to eye. Even with them both in heels, they’re almost exactly the same height.

Santana takes the opening and leans in, letting her eyes close as she feels her lips make contact with Eva’s. They barely maintain their rhythm as they start to kiss more furiously, but Santana couldn’t care less. This girl is hot and she is amazing with her mouth and hips. All Santana can think about is getting out of this bar and into a more private place to see exactly what Eva can really do.

Her fingers tangle into Eva’s dark hair, pulling it needily and causing Eva to moan into her mouth.

“Is your place cool?” Eva asks, the words hot against Santana’s lips. She nods slightly and breaks the kiss to see Eva standing in front of her with her cheeks flushed and her chest rising and falling with her rapid breathing.

Santana doesn’t bother to respond before she’s leading Eva towards the exit.

~!~!~!~

Eva is gone by the time Santana wakes up in the morning. She’s not really surprised; on the subway ride to Bushwick Santana made it clear that she wasn’t looking for any sort of ongoing thing and Eva was more than okay with that response.

The sex was good, satisfying enough, but nothing special. Eva was loud and aggressive and Santana knows she’s going to owe Kurt big time for not giving him any warning. On the other hand, she hopes that Rachel heard it all loud and clear so that maybe she’ll get the picture.

She only gets to see Leigh a couple of times outside of work over the next few weeks and it trumps the couple of girls that she brings home after shifts. She thinks her game is improving (or her tight clothes and flawless looks are doing it all for her) and there’s something rewarding about bringing home women to parade past her roommates.

The thoughts of Quinn’s face after she denied her that kiss in the airport start to diminish. She’s getting past pining for someone that never was never really available by getting under a growing selection of single New York women. It’s working better than she could have hoped; between working late and then being up all night, the days seem to go by quickly.

Rachel has practically done everything in her power to avoid Santana lately and that has just made it all that much better.

She should have known that her luck couldn’t last.

It’s mid-afternoon on a Thursday, which is usually a time when she rolls out of bed to a serenely empty apartment while Kurt and Rachel are working. But today, Rachel is banging around in the kitchen when Santana wanders through, bleary-eyed and hungover.

Rachel takes one glance at her and scoffs, which does nothing except rile Santana up.

“What’s shoved up your ass?” Santana seethes, grabbing the carton of orange juice from the fridge and taking a swig directly from it. This just causes Rachel to display even more disgust on her features.

“Look at you! It’s 2 in the afternoon, you smell like stale booze and some random girl’s perfume, and you actually have bags under your eyes.” She stops to really look at Santana. “What has happened to you, Santana?”

“It’s called enjoying my life. You might want to dislodge the massive stick up your ass and try it sometime,” she bites back, slamming the juice carton on the counter. “And while you’re at it, maybe you can just keep your judgmental, holier-than-thou attitude to yourself.”

Rachel’s eyes immediately well up with tears. She drops the soapy frying pan back into the sink with a thud as they start pouring down her cheeks. Santana is pretty sure she’s just trying to assuage Santana’s anger and it just makes her even more furious.

“I really don’t care about your ability to cry on demand, Berry,” she seethes.

“Are you happy?”

The question catches Santana off guard. Rachel’s shoulders are visibly sagging and her wet hands are dripping onto the floor with a carelessness that Rachel typically doesn’t possess. She looks vulnerable and pathetic with her mask of makeup and perfectly straightened hair trying to cover up the cracks of the self-conscious little girl lying within.

“What?” Santana chokes out.

“Are you happy just working day to day to pay the bills and falling in bed with anybody that bothers to flirt with you? Because I thought you moved out here to follow your dreams, not to just go through the motions.”

The truth to her words sting more than Santana will ever admit. New York was supposed to be this huge fresh start to figure out what she really wanted and that’s not what it has been for the six months that she has been living here. She could say that it’s Quinn’s fault for derailing her so shortly after she got here, but that’s unfair. She shouldn’t have let Quinn get under her skin. All she’s left with is the wound from all of the drama and no focus on why she’s here in the first place.

“What does it matter to you anyway?” She’ll do anything in her power to keep Rachel from realizing how close to home she’s hitting right now. Unfortunately, Rachel isn’t easily deflected.

“Yesterday’s girl had a lovely conversation with Kurt and I while she so rudely ate our food without asking. She’s an aspiring musician. Did you know that about her? She has a weekly gig at a place uptown. Did you happen to get a name or phone number? Is your future even something you’re thinking about?”

Rachel has her. She racks her brain to come up with a mental image of the girl. Dark hair (the only kind of girl she’s been willing to go after lately), tanned skin with freckles across her shoulders. Her name isn’t coming to her and the edges of the visual are fuzzy, like she never really looked hard enough in the first place.

Rachel wipes her hands on the dish towel and strides over to the table. On the back of an envelope is a messily scrawled name and number. She thrusts it at Santana, who takes it in stunned silence.

“Her name is Danielle, by the way. If you decide you want to stop being so scared of actually doing what you love, you might want to make her more than a random blurry memory that was in your bed once.”

With that, Rachel executes a perfect storm out. Santana is left standing there clutching the envelope. She stares at the sloppy handwriting and hates herself that she immediately thinks about Quinn’s loopy script that is messy and elegant all at once. This Danielle girl might be a small step into the industry, but Santana knows from the depths of her heart that she’s not going to suck up her pride and call this girl.

But the conversation with Rachel changes something in her. She likes the bar fine enough, but everybody else there has larger ambitions. It’s just a job to pay the bills while they pursue other things. Leigh is swamped in graduate school applications, Ashten is applying for internships all over the world. And Santana, well she’s working and fucking her way through the lesbian population of New York City. 

It’s not a long term fix to get over all the crap that is going on in her head. She’s falling into the same routine as she did while at Louisville, but instead of running home to Brittany at every opportunity to solve her problems, she’s doing it with girls she doesn’t remember a week later.

She promises herself that she’ll start figuring her shit out. But first, she needs to shower off the scent of Danielle and find a way to not have the urge to murder her invasive roommate.

~!~!~!~

“Mija, it’s good to finally get you on the phone,” Mr. Lopez says, his tone businesslike despite talking to his only child.

Santana is still buried under the blankets, exhausted after a long Saturday night at the bar. It’s early on Sunday morning, earlier than she would choose to wake up on her own. But when the phone rang for the third time, she accepted the call without even bothering to check the Caller ID.

“Good morning to you too,” she grumbles, forcing herself to sit up against the pillows. “What can I do for you so very early in the morning?”

“You haven’t been returning my phone calls,” he states simply. “You’re only nineteen and you’re living halfway across the country. The least you can do is let your parents know that you’re alive. I believe you agreed to call your mother once a week and she says she hasn’t heard from you in weeks. This is unacceptable, Santana Maria.”

Even over the phone she can picture her dad sitting at the big desk in his home office, tie already knotted around his neck. They will probably be leaving for church as soon as he is done torturing her.

“Things have just been busy here, Dad,” she lies. 

“Have you found a respectable job yet?” he asks sternly. She knows that he disapproves of her working as a bartender. It’s not like she’s a cocktail waitress at a high end hotel and he knows it.

“Dad, I like my job,” she defends. “And I have been putting money away. I’ve replaced all of the savings from the money Mamí gave me.”

Her dad likes financial stability and teaching her responsibility. She figures he hadn’t whisked her back to Ohio just for the fact that he knows that she’s actually pretty good at taking care of herself. Plus, it helps that her mom was on her side about her making this move.

“Serving rowdy, young men cheap beer is hardly a career,” he scoffs. “I am enrolling you in two classes at the City College of New York. You may continue to work at that bar and live in New York as long as you maintain your studies. It’s time for you to grow up, Santana.”

“Dad, I’m not a little girl anymore! You can’t just decide what I’m going to do with my life! I don’t want to take classes and I’m sure as hell not going to leave New York.”

“Respetarme, mija.”

It’s a line she’s heard a million times. He’s demanding her respect. Any time she would begin to lose her temper, which was often in her younger years, he would firmly remind her of her duty to respect him.

But she’s not a little girl anymore and she’s sick of her father trying to force her into his life plan for her. It was his fault in the first place that she took the scholarship to University of Louisville. Plans outside of a college degree just did not fall into what he expected from her.

“You know I have plenty of respect. Maybe you need to realize that I’m not a child anymore. I don’t want to go to college. I tried it and I’m just not cut out to be a doctor like you. Sorry to disappoint.” The words taste bitter in her mouth. As an only child, her parents had always put all of their expectations solely on her. For her father that meant making sure his child maintained his legacy of earning a higher degree.

“Your mother and I have agreed that you may take music classes if you wish. But you will go back to school, Santana. I will be paying for your school in full as long as you maintain your side of the agreement. If you do not, you are completely on your own.”

“Is that all you called for?” she says angrily, knowing that as much as she wants to flip out, it’s pointless. Her mom is behind this plan of her father’s and they are willing to pay for her to study music. While she would fight her dad until the very end, the idea of letting down her mom after how accepting and supportive she has been stops her.

“I will send you the list of courses. Please let me know what you have selected by Wednesday. Call your mother soon, please.”

The line goes dead before they can say a formal goodbye.

As angry she is at the situation, part of her feels like a giant weight has been lifted from her shoulders. She has a future. It might not be NYADA or Tisch, but it’s still a chance to study music. She searches for the course catalog before her father even has a chance to send her the link and she spends the rest of the morning reading through the course descriptions. She wouldn’t admit it to him, but for the first time in months, Santana feels excited about what’s waiting down the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: quasi-suspect continues to be an awesome beta. She also wants to take credit for all of the angst that’s in this chapter (just kidding, I’m pretty sure she’s on her way to hunt me down right now).


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the awesome feedback lately! A lot of people have been mentioning me writing a chapter from Quinn’s POV. The way I have the story outlined, I really don’t think I’m going to do that. I know it’s frustrating at times to not know what is going on in Quinn’s mind and it keeps you, as the reader, in the dark on certain plot points. Hopefully it starts coming together over the next few chapters and you’ll understand more of why I’m writing it this way. Enjoy ☺

“Hey, I haven’t seen you around much lately,” Santana comments as she slips behind the bar. Leigh is already standing there restocking the bar.

“Yeah, things have been really busy lately.” It’s vague and Leigh almost seems a little nervous around her. 

“Well maybe we can change that tonight. I hear my hands are pretty good stress relief,” Santana flirts, moving closer to the tall blonde.

“I have plans. Can we maybe do lunch tomorrow before work?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Santana agrees. 

“Okay, cool. Well, the fruit needs to be prepped and can you check the kegs while you’re in the back?” Back to business.

It’s a pretty easy Thursday night shift, even without the regular easygoing flirting between her and Leigh. She still walks out with a wad of cash and the feeling that her singing sounded amazing tonight, even if it is just in the form of glorified karaoke.

Leigh texts her early the next day with a place to meet for lunch. It’s been a long time since they hung out without it being in a crowded bar or naked in bed. Santana finds herself feeling nervous, almost like she’s going on a blind date.

She knows Leigh. They talk about her ambitions and what she’s studying and her relationship with her parents as they lay in bed after sex. It’s a better way to pass the time than cuddling, in Santana’s opinion, even though maybe it’s even more vulnerable than some physical intimacy.

Santana tries to stop thinking so much about what a simple lunch with a friend might mean as she pushes open the front door of the little Italian place Leigh has selected. Leigh is standing off to the side, obviously waiting for her to arrive. Santana glances at her phone screen; she’s five minutes late as usual.

Leigh gives her a small wave and she walks towards her. They greet one another with a simple kiss on the cheek and let the hostess lead them to any intimate little table for two.

“Well, this is romantic,” Santana jokes, unrolling her silverware and dropping her cloth napkin onto her lap.

“Or just a step up from eating bar food at sleazy bars, which basically your idea of a date,” Leigh shoots back, a playfulness dancing within her eyes.

The waitress comes over and recites the specials before taking their orders. Santana could use a glass of wine, but copies Leigh’s order of a water with lemon anyway.

“So what has you so busy lately?” Santana inquires, glancing casually over her menu.

“That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about,” Leigh admits, catching Santana’s gaze as they both look up. “I met someone.”

“Okay...” Santana responds, not quite sure where this is going.

“We’ve been having a lot of fun for a while, Santana. But there’s nothing moving forward here and this girl is a huge catch and I’d be stupid to let her slip away because I’m still sleeping with my friend.”

“In other words, you’re calling off our arrangement.” 

She knows she has no business being annoyed about it; Leigh is the one that has been emotionally available this entire time. Santana, on the other hand, has been more worried about dealing with her best friend-turned-hookup drama to really think about this amazing girl as potential girlfriend material.

“Is there really a reason for me not to? From what Ashten says you have plenty of girls meeting your needs in my absence anyway. I’m not going to put my life on hold just because I’m the first number on your booty call list, Santana.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Santana backtracks. “This all just kind of caught me off-guard. I didn’t realize a fancy lunch date was the prerogative for breaking off friends with benefits relationships.”

“Friends typically deserve good treatment. Like how I’m expecting that things won’t be weird between us and we can still friends without the sex part.”

Santana nods thoughtfully. She can’t help but think about what it would be like to date Leigh. The girl is beautiful, confident, hardworking, and insanely intelligent. She makes Santana laugh and she keeps situations from getting too serious. Really, Santana has been overlooking what great girlfriend material she’s been this entire time.

“Leigh, I’m sorry that-” Santana starts.

“Really, it’s not necessary,” she says, cutting off Santana with a wave of her hand. “Look, you’re an awesome girl and I do think that there’s something special that pulled us together. But we want different things right now and this girl can give me what I need.”

“You know I just want you to be happy, right?” Santana asks feebly, fisting her napkin in her palm beneath the edge of the table.

Leigh reaches across the small table and lets her fingers graze along Santana’s arm gently.

“I appreciate that, San. Friends?”

Santana doesn’t expect the slightest touch to unravel her the way it does. It wasn’t even until she can’t have Leigh that she realizes that they really are compatible beyond the bedroom. It’s hard to look her in the eyes right now and say that she’s okay with just being friends. She had her chance for it to be more. It slipped through her fingers. So she puts on a fake smile and gives her friend a nod.

“Of course. Tell me about this amazing girl that has you so happy,” she responds, hiding behind her smile in order to be the kind of friend that Leigh deserves to have.

Leigh holds off only long enough to give her order to the waitress before she jumps into telling Santana about her new girl.

“Well, she’s an incredibly talented dancer. And I don’t just say that because I met her while dancing in a club. She does it professionally, and damn can she move her hips in ways I’ve never dreamed about. She’s a redhead, which is usually not my type but she’s got the personality that just makes it work. She’s from small Ohio town too, I believe. But she’s not the show choir type, so I doubt your paths have ever crossed...”

Santana is only half-listening to Leigh gush about this girl. What she sees is her friend on the verge of falling head over heels for someone that deserves her. It’s evident in the sparkle in Leigh’s eyes and the frantic way that her hands move, it’s in the way that Leigh is on the edge of her seat as she recites the little intricacies of a girl that Santana could have been. 

Despite it, she’s glad to have her friend and see her happy with what the future holds. Santana can’t help but allow her mind to wander to Quinn though. She couldn’t just be happy for Quinn discovering herself. In all honesty, she didn’t even try. Quinn finding happiness in someone that wasn’t her had hurt so deeply that she couldn’t see how good it had been for Quinn.

Why was everything different with Quinn? They couldn’t just go from having amazing sex to friends that talked about their new flames over lunch. Things were never just simple with Quinn. Friendship didn’t come easy for them despite all the years they’ve had to work on it. As soon as things seem to work between them, something else interferes.

Yet in her gut, Santana knows that there’s a reason that their paths keep tangling into a jumbled mess. There’s something about Quinn that is always just so different. So she sits and listens to Leigh and lets her friend bask in the glow of infatuation, but her heart pulls her somewhere else despite how much easier it would be to just let Quinn go, once and for all.

~!~!~!~

With her avoidance of Rachel and therefore the apartment as a whole, it’s been a while since Santana has gotten to catch up with Kurt. He’s interning at Vogue.com full time for the summer and practically lives at the office for the majority of the day, so it’s surprising when she finds him sitting at the kitchen table on a Monday morning a few weeks later after Rachel has left for her rehearsal.

He’s working, Santana notices, with his laptop planted on the table surrounded by disorganized papers. She pours her coffee and sits down across from him, inching the papers back just far enough so that she can rest her mug on the table.

Kurt is biting on the end of his pen as he scans through one of the documents. His eyes are bloodshot and Santana can see the bags under his eyes, which means he began working before doing his morning facial routine.

“What’re you doing home?” she inquires, despite obviously seeing that he’s working anyway.

“They’re steam cleaning the rugs in the office so I’m working from here at least for the morning.”

“Do you ever have fun anymore?” He seems to work seven days a week. She doesn’t even know the last time he found the time to go to an audition.

“I get to meet famous designers on a weekly basis, I have full access to the closet which is home to fashions that haven’t even hit the runway yet, and maybe if you were less of a bitch I would bring you home some swag,” he replies without even glancing up from his paperwork.

“You mean even better swag than the ballet?” She perks up at the thought of new shoes.

He rolls his eyes and drops his chewed up pen onto the table next to his laptop.

“I am not scoring you any of the new Jimmy Choos until you tell me what the hell you did to Rachel and why she’s unhealthily obsessed with whatever it is between you and Quinn.”

His look is expectant and slightly condescending, like a father asking their child to explain why they missed their curfew. She fights the urge to go off on him that none of it is his god damn business, but she’s sick of having that fight.

“Rachel is an entitled brat that has only heard Quinn’s sob story and thinks I’m evil for not giving into her ridiculous advances when she visited. I can’t explain Rachel’s weird ass obsession with me and Blondie, but it’s probably at least partially due to the fact that she hasn’t gotten laid since Donkey Face moved out.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure she sleep with this guy in our music theory class right after finals week, but that’s besides the point. Why haven’t you given Rachel your side of the story then?”

“She came at me with everything I’m doing wrong in life and I don’t owe her anything,” Santana defends.

“I’m not saying you do, but maybe you could think about putting your friendship with me ahead of your ridiculously large amount of pride because I don’t know how much more I can take of Rachel overanalyzing every second of your fight with her or her picking through her daily conversations with Quinn. They’re both miserable without you as their friend, and it’s making me miserable.”

“There’s no way in hell that I’m apologizing to her when she was being an invasive bitch.”

Kurt sighs loudly and snaps his laptop shut.

“Look, I’m not asking you to take all the blame. I’m just asking you to figure out how to make this apartment a little less like a war zone. Plus, have you even spoken to Quinn since her visit?”

“I’ll try, okay? With Rachel at least. Quinn needs to figure out what fuck she wants before she tries to make out with me in an airport again and I’m not getting pulled back into that tornado right now.”

“She really misses you, you know,” Kurt says quietly. 

Santana looks down into her coffee mug and avoids his eyes. She’s not even sure if he’s talking about Rachel or Quinn at this point, but it doesn’t really matter. She misses them too, both in very different ways. 

As much as Rachel can be overbearing and interfering, Santana can’t deny that, in general, they actually work really well as roommates. She doesn’t give Rachel enough credit for trying to be a good friend, even if sometimes, the girl seems to be socially inept. Santana can partially take the blame for that; she was an integral part in making Rachel a social pariah in high school. It’s not that hard for her to promise Kurt that she’ll try to work through things with Rachel.

Truthfully, she misses Quinn more than she’d ever admit. The rollercoaster friendship of the past few months has worn her out beyond belief. It feels like her life has been flipped upside down since leaving Louisville. She lost Brittany, she pissed off her dad, she slept with her best friend, she moved in with two people she used to bully the crap out of. None of it is how she had expected life to turn out, but the instability of her friendship with Quinn is still the part that stings the most.

Yeah, she wants to figure out why Quinn was so upset over what happened at the airport. Yet the idea of putting herself out there once again and not hear what she needs is too terrifying. She has told herself time and time again that the conversation at Yale said it all. Quinn wants to have fun and explore and none of it is with her.

So why is it that kissing Quinn in bed that night made her whole body react even more intensely than anything else has? There was more passion in that one kiss than there had been in the whole night at the wedding.

She refuses to let her mind wander to what Quinn might be feeling. It’s bad enough to be stuck in this constant cycle while knowing how much it kills her that their friendship is never going to be okay if her feelings keep getting in the way. Knowing how Quinn feels about her now, or worse doesn’t feel, serves no purpose but to give her false hope that they could be something more or crush all of her chances of a future where Quinn realizes that they just work.

Being in limbo feels better than having to risk either one of those situations. So Santana makes up her mind that she’s not dealing with it and that she’d rather have the sporadic texting sessions and the confusing visits if it means having Quinn as a small piece of her life. It’s less complicated like that because even if Quinn has finally realized that this fucked up ball of emotions could translate it to something more, the chances that both of them will manage to not screw it up right now is nearly impossible.

“Yeah,” she answers Kurt non-committally.

He’s good at reading the point where he’s pushed her enough, unlike Rachel, and he picks up his pen as he starts to rifle through his papers again, effectively ending the conversation.

~!~!~!~

It takes Santana three days to suck up her pride enough to approach Rachel.

As Rachel has been avoiding being at the apartment at basically all costs, Santana finds herself standing out in front of the theatre waiting for Rachel to get out of rehearsal. The show is merely weeks away from opening night, which means Rachel’s free time is basically non-existent. Kurt had texted her and found out when they were breaking for dinner.

It might be a silly plan, ambushing Rachel like this in the middle of her busy workday, but Santana figures it’d be better if they speak over a meal in public, rather than stomping around the loft. It’s neutral ground and she figures at least this way they’ll have a table between them if things get ugly.

Ten minutes past when Kurt told her they would be taking a break, Rachel walks out of the theatre amongst a few of her co-stars. She looks around, obviously expecting Kurt to be waiting (as per their plan) and seems stunned to see Santana leaning against the building instead. Santana doesn’t approach her; she lets Rachel wave off her friends to go on without her and then lets Rachel come to her.

“Uh, hi,” Rachel greets, glancing around to see if Kurt happens to be in the vicinity.

“It’s just me,” she says, confirming that Kurt isn’t around. “I’m not here to jump you or anything. I thought maybe we could grab dinner and talk?”

Rachel gives her a hesitant nod before gesturing for Santana that they can start walking.

“I know a good place not too far away that has a lot of vegan options, is that okay with you?” Rachel asks politely.

“Yeah, sounds, uh, great.”

“They have meat too, you carnivore,” Rachel jokes, lightening the mood a fraction. Santana cracks a smile and stuffs her hands down into the pockets of her jeans as they walk next to one another.

They get a table as soon as they walk in (apparently Rachel is a regular here these days) and Santana is grateful to see that Rachel wasn’t lying about there being a good selection of non-vegan dishes on the menu. The waitress appears and they order before being left to their own devices.

“So, were you just in the neighborhood?” Rachel asks, sipping at her ice water.

“Look, we’ve got some shit to deal with and you’re never home anymore, so yeah. This is all I could think of.” Santana isn’t used to having to apologize for anything. The idea of doing it for the sake of Rachel Berry makes her stomach tie in knots.

“Well that’s very mature of you, Santana,” Rachel replies. Santana fights the urge to lose it over Rachel’s obvious condescension towards her.

“I know you’re trying to just be a good friend and help me out. Our personalities just kind of clash, ya know?” Her cheeks burn at her lame attempt. She is sorry for how she has reacted to Rachel lately, but she also thinks that Rachel needs to understand that maybe not everybody wants her unsolicited help.

“I understand that maybe we are not the most compatible match in the realm of friendship. I just thought you could use somebody lately because you seem to be unable to find what it is you are looking for.”

It’s a reasonable enough explanation. Rachel can’t help but be involved in anything going on around her. She literally even tried to join clubs that made no sense when they were in high school just to be part of everything.

“I’m going back to school in the fall,” Santana blurts out. She had been planning to wait and tell them once she got her official acceptance into the program at CCNY. Her dad knew someone in admissions though, so she figured it was a done deal anyway.

Rachel’s eyes brighten and Santana can’t help but feel pleased that Rachel seems excited by this news.

“Here in New York?” Rachel questions. Santana nods her head.

“Yeah, over at City College. Hopefully I’ll get into their Music Technology program.”

“Santana that’s really great!!” Rachel responds genuinely. “So do you want to be a DJ or something while you’re pursuing your singing dreams?”

“No, I just want to produce music. I think that being part of the label that makes a musician famous is enough recognition for me.” Rachel looks like she’s trying to fight back her usual word vomit.

“As long as you’re happy,” she tells Santana, her smile firmly in place. 

Santana knows part of Rachel thinks that she’s giving up on her dreams, but it doesn’t matter. The prospect of having a successful future without playing for sold-out crowds every night is satisfying enough on its own.

“Thanks, Rach.” She knows it’s hard for Rachel to not give her every opinion on the matter, but Santana appreciates that her roommate manages to hold it for her sake.

“I know you probably don’t want to talk about Quinn and I’m not going to ask for your side of the story or anything. But I do want to be friends with both of you so I guess it would be in your best interest to know that she will be visiting in a few weeks for the opening of my show.”

“Well I appreciate the heads up,” Santana replies. “But Quinn and I are both adults that can handle being around one another civilly for a weekend.”

“I’m not blaming you by any means, Santana, but she hasn’t been herself since whatever happened that weekend before she left for Lima. She hasn’t opened up to me at all since that first night, so I really don’t know what’s going on with her.”

Santana just shrugs. She hasn’t spoken to Quinn, so she definitely doesn’t know what her deal is. Quinn likes things on her terms. She is most comfortable when she knows that she’s in control. Santana challenges that in her. In high school, Quinn always had to worry about Santana overpowering her: taking her Cheerio captaincy, stealing her boyfriends, fighting her for prom queen.

Until what happened in New Haven, Santana had been willing to operate based on Quinn’s actions and feelings. When Quinn claimed that it meant nothing and was just harmless fun, Santana took her at face value and started trying to move on with her life.

However, as always, Quinn found a way to still affect her in a way that nobody else ever had. With one goodnight kiss, she effectively unraveled all the progress Santana had made. The fact that she had been so blind to the idea of Leigh being more than just a recurring hookup was completely due to the hold Quinn still has over her.

Santana wants to be angry with Quinn for showing up that weekend and turning her life upside down again. The feeling of Quinn’s lips brushing Santana’s cheek when she panicked in the airport haunts her in the moments before sleep every night, even while lying next to a random stranger. Without fail, the look of horror and regret on Quinn’s face as she backpedaled towards the security line passes through her mind every single day.

“Quinn can take care of herself; she’s been doing it for years,” Santana reminds Rachel.

The girl had handled a teenage pregnancy without really even having her supposedly best friends there to support her and help out. A rejected kiss from someone who she had turned down paled in comparison to being kicked out by her parents at sixteen.

Their food arrives and Santana digs in, grateful for the pause in conversation. Rachel, on the other hand, is barely touching her food. Santana watches her push the string beans around on her plate.

“What’s wrong, Rach?”

The truth is that she’s seen Rachel so little since Rachel returned from Lima and they’ve spoken even less. Santana let herself get wrapped up in her own life problems that she has overlooked the fact that Rachel looks even thinner and her skin is pallid. 

“You know, my dads and Mr. Schue are going to be here for opening night so we’ll have to entertain them as well. I sent invitations to everybody from glee club. Not even Finn has responded.”

Santana can see the hurt and anxiety in her roommate’s posture.

“Kurt, Quinn, and I are definitely going to be there. I’ve already taken that night off from work. It’s still three weeks away; the others might be trying to figure out their schedules.”

“Yeah, I suppose. But what if they do come and realize that I didn’t deserve the role? Plus, opening nights are traditionally not the best performance as the kinks are still being worked out.”

Santana laughs at the absurdity. 

“Do you really think that it’s going to be anything less than spectacular with you headlining it? Rach, you’ve known every word to Funny Girl since you were like six years old. You’re going to blow everybody out of the water. We’re there to see you. If that oaf that’s playing Arnstein screws up, there’s nothing we can do about it. You’ll still shine the brightest, regardless.”

“Damian is good actor and a perfect gentleman,” Rachel defends her co-star.

“I’ve only met the dude once and believe me, he’s much more concerned with how many girls he can sleep with in the cast than worrying about the tone of the delivery of his lines.”

Rachel gives her a weak smile.

“You have a weird way of showing that you care,” Rachel comments.

“Just eat your damn rabbit food because you’re looking way too much like Fantine instead of Fanny Brice.”

“Did you just accurately reference and compare two Broadway roles? Santana, people might start to question your badassness if you’re not careful,” Rachel teases.

“Well if you tell anyone about this weird-ass dinner date in the first place, I’ll ends you,” Santana retorts, stabbing her fork into her potatoes and pointing it at Rachel.

Rachel laughs, and it’s more light-hearted this time.

After dinner, Santana walks Rachel back to the theatre. It’s pleasant and friendly as they stroll along and Santana is glad that she did what Kurt asked of her. Rachel might drive her up a wall sometimes, but she really is a good friend.

“Thanks for this, Santana,” Rachel says, opening her arms for a hug. At least she’s learned how to silently express her desire for an embrace.

Santana just smiles and rolls her eyes, but she hugs Rachel back.

She doesn’t expect to arrive home hardly after eight o’clock to see Kurt wearing a ratty pair of gym shorts and a tank top while swigging directly from his wine bottle in front of the TV. It seems to be a marathon of Ugly Betty.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Santana questions, noticing that Kurt doesn’t seem to have a single product in his hair.

Kurt turns towards her, his eyes glazed over and bloodshot.

“Adam and I broke up,” he slurs, lifting the bottle to his lips again. Santana strides across the room and dislodges it from his hand, putting it down on the coffee table.

“And you think that drinking cheap wine by yourself is the solution for that?” she asks, incredulously.

“Blaine called while we were, ya know.”

“Tell me you did not take that phone call, you fucking idiot.”

“He’s just been so sad lately and he’s nervous about coming to NYADA. I just want to help him.”

“So help him when your boyfriend doesn’t have your dick in his mouth! God, what were you thinking, Kurt? Adam is actually a half-decent guy and he sees something in your pansy ass.”

Kurt is too drunk to even look ashamed, but Santana can see the waterworks starting up in his eyes. She knows that sometimes she’s too blunt for her friends to handle, but somebody has to be upfront and honest with them.

“I might be leaving NYADA.”

“WHAT?”

She picks up the bottle she had taken from him and takes a long swig to keep herself from flipping out on him. He got into NYADA halfway through the year; he became a hero of the freshman class almost instantly. Sure, he hadn’t landed a huge role like Rachel has, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t have the potential to do so.

“How many roles out there are written for flamboyant gay boys? My register is way above the parts written for a typical, heterosexual guy. I’m going to forever be dancing in the background and NYADA isn’t exactly cheap.”

“That Tibideaux lady obviously sees something in you or she wouldn’t have let you audition again at the Winter Showcase,” Santana points out.

“I got offered a full-time position at Vogue. Not just intern crap. Like an actual job as the assistant to the Junior Creative Director.”

“Is it what you want? Because if performing is where your heart is, then you can’t just give that up. You have the kind of personality and voice that people are going to want to write roles for. You’re unique and special, Lady Hummel.”

“Damn, I’m too drunk to deal with this shit. Can’t we just admire the beautiful human being that is Daniel Meade right now?”

“You’re not off the hook, Kurt. When your skinny ass sobers up tomorrow, we’re talking about this shit.”

She takes the bottle to the kitchen and shoves the cork in before putting it in the fridge. Without any real thought, she kicks off her shoes and curls into Kurt’s side, settling in to watch with him. 

When she wakes up in the middle of the night, it’s with her head in his lap. He’s snoring lightly and she sits up, stretching her tense limbs. She throws a blanket over him and kisses his forehead quickly before heading into her room to sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience between updates. Life keeps getting crazy at the most inopportune of times. Like usual, my beta, quasi-suspect, is an absolute doll.

Surprisingly, Santana is awake early without the blaring of an alarm or the incessant singing of her roommates. She is still dressed in last night’s clothes, despite being completely sober, and her head is void of any pains from drinking. It’s nice to feel refreshed for once and she happily creeps past Kurt, who is still passed out on the couch, and into the bathroom.

Once she’s clean, she tiptoes into the kitchen where Rachel is moving around without any of her normal exuberance. She shuffles slowly in the small space, filling the coffee maker with fresh water. Her posture is hunched and even from the back, Santana can tell how tired Rachel feels. She moves forward and takes over the task of making coffee, gesturing for Rachel to sit.

When the coffee machine whirs to life, Santana turns to Rachel. “What do you want for breakfast?” Santana offers, already pulling eggs out of the fridge for her own meal.

“Just some grapefruit, I think,” Rachel responds through a yawn. “Why is Kurt sleeping on the couch?”

“He had a rough day and when I got home, he was already smashed. He fell asleep there and I didn’t feel like trying to drag his drunk ass into his bedroom.”

She cuts the grapefruit in half before flipping her eggs on the stove. It’s up to Kurt to tell Rachel about everything going on with him. She’s trying to stay out of his business.

Rachel thanks her when she drops the grapefruit down in front of her with a spoon. Rachel picks at it as Santana digs into her eggs, soaking them first in hot sauce.

“Eat it,” Santana commands, pointing her fork at Rachel’s practically untouched grapefruit half. “You’re going to collapse on that stage one of these days.”

Rachel obliges with a small bite and a sip of coffee.

“How do you manage to balance your crazy hours at the bar and your love life?”

Santana practically chokes over her forkful of scrambled eggs. She has no idea where this conversation is going, but she knows that Rachel isn’t dumb enough to try and bring up Quinn again.

“I mean, you manage to meet all of these girls. You hang out with that Leigh girl a decent amount and you have friends and hookups and everything a normal nineteen year old should get to have.”

“What is this really about, Rach?” Santana questions.

“How did you handle the dry spell while doing long distance with Brittany?”

“If you think I’m going to explain the intricacies of phone sex so that you can get off with Finn, you’re out of your mind.”

“No, no this isn’t about Finn,” Rachel corrects quickly. “I just haven’t, you know, since Brody.”

Santana looks up from her breakfast to stare at Rachel. With some quick mental math, she realizes that it’s been almost four months since Brody left.

“Have you at least been self-loving?” The words are out before she can stop herself. Rachel’s face is nearly purple in embarrassment.

“Well, uh, you know it’s hard without doors in this apartment, and -” 

“God, Rach, I don’t really want to know the answer,” Santana cuts her off with a grimace. “But you need to hit the town and get laid before your brain explodes.”

“There’s one guy in our cast that’s really attractive,” Rachel states.

“Bad idea, Berry. You’re locked into a contract and will have to work with this guy if things don’t work out. Why don’t you try to date outside of the theatre world?”

Rachel sighs and drops her chin onto her palm.

“I dated Finn and Puck. You hooked up with Finn, Puck, Sam, and Brittany. Quinn dated Finn and Sam and slept with Puck. Mercedes dated Sam. Yet somehow we’re all still friends despite all of that. We were still a team that won a national competition title.”

“Are you seriously trying to justify your actions in your actual career based on a bunch of high school misfits?” Santana scoffs. “Look, Rachel. I fucking care about you. This role has been your god damn dream since you were a fetus. Don’t put that shit on the back burner because you want an easy lay.”

It seems like Rachel gets the point, but she doesn’t seem pleased with the idea of possibly putting strong morality before her obvious needs. Santana gets up and tosses her plate in the sink. She leans back against the counter and looks at her roommate.

“If you really want my advice, I suggest you buy a good waterproof vibrator. That way you can put your shower time to better use instead of using it for your incessant vocal runs.”

With that, Santana leaves the kitchen before Rachel’s mastubatory habits can become a more in-depth conversation. She may have learned how to tolerate the midget, but there are certain lines she is just not willing to cross.

Instead, she figures it’s time to deal with Sleeping Beauty on the couch. He grunts and tries to pull the blanket up over his face.

“Oh, no no no. Get your ass up, Hummel.”

She rips back the blanket and he curls instinctively into a ball, burying his face in the arm of the couch. All she can think about is how if she had spent the night sleeping at that awkward angle, she would need a week’s worth of chiropractic appointments to counteract the stiffness.

“Now, go take a damn shower, have some fucking coffee, and then we’re dealing with the bullshit you were spewing last night when I got home.” Kurt doesn’t move from his spot on the couch. Santana reaches over and starts shaking him, causing him to groan unappreciatively. “Did I fucking stutter, Hummel?” 

She jabs him in the ribs, probably harder than necessary, and he lets out a yip and jumps up from his spot on the couch.

“That’s much better,” she states, settling down on the couch and dismissing him with a wave of her hand.

She flips through the TV channels mindlessly as she waits for him to emerge. When it’s been almost an hour of the water running, she’s tempted to check in order to make sure that he hasn’t drowned, but Rachel takes up banging on the bathroom door to assert the fact that she needs to be at the theatre soon and that involves her having a chance to take a shower.

He finally appears, a towel wrapped around his waist, his face looking ashen. He scuffles into his section and pulls the curtain. Santana hears him rustling around for clothes, but he returns wearing an old, frayed t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants. She opens her mouth to comment, but he heads directly into the kitchen.

Santana waits as he pours himself some coffee and puts bread into the toaster. He comes back carrying the plate and mug with him and drops them onto the coffee table with an exaggerated sigh.

“Feeling any better?” she asks, hitting the power button on the TV remote.

He grunts and takes a bite of his toast.

Really, she knows she shouldn’t push him if he’s not ready to talk about it. It’s not really her style to avoid issues, however. Bluntness is definitely a character trait that will never fade within her and she figures by now that her friends should be expecting her to deal with problems directly.

“Okay, Caveman, listen up. So you drank your little brain into a hangover. Well, suck it up because you have bigger things to deal with today. First of all, put some of your regular clothes on so that you look like you’re going to a polo match. Add some product to that hair because, let’s face it, you can’t rock the ‘just rolled out of bed’ look. Then you’re going to march your ass over to Adam’s place and you’re going to get on your fucking knees and beg for a second chance.”

“Since when do you get to make my life decisions?” Kurt retorts, scowling at her.

“I’m not going to sit here and watch you throw away something great for a guy that only cares about you when it’s convenient.”

Kurt refuses to move; he crosses his arms across his chest defiantly. Santana stands up, sick of trying to deal with him when he obviously wants to just ignore his issues. He sinks back into the couch, relieved that she’s done pushing the issue. As she walks towards the kitchen to refill her own coffee, she can’t resist the urge to turn around and push him one last time

“You can deal with your shit, or I will gladly fill Rachel in on your plan to quit NYADA.”

“Don’t you dare, Santana,” Kurt seethes.

“You’re playing with the queen of blackmail, Lady Hummel. I suggest you deal with it if you don’t want Barbra involved.”

As she pours herself another cup of coffee, she hears Kurt stomp off into his bedroom area. She knows he’s cranky and pissed and probably torn and upset over a lot of the events of the last twenty-four hours, but if there’s anything she learned from her breakup with Brittany is that dwelling on it and pushing it off just means you’re left screwed at the end.

If Kurt doesn’t want to end up like her, then he needs to deal with his shit.

~!~!~!~

Santana does her best to keep an eye on Kurt over the next couple of days, even though he’s not speaking to her. Rachel literally hasn’t been home as the show is only two weeks away from opening night and that means she is living at the theater. 

Her own life gets in the way a lot, however. On top of work, which has been every single night for two straight weeks, she also has to go register for her classes and do ridiculous orientation crap during the day.

Yet she leaves the campus feeling excited with a bulging folder of information. She loves the studios and idea of producing music and that in four years she could have an actual future that doesn’t involve slinging liquor bottles.

It doesn’t feel like a pipe dream. Being famous was always vague and undefined. Deep down, she had hoped it would be from singing, but not everybody can get picked up off of YouTube like Mercedes did. If there’s anything that she’s learned from living with Rachel Berry, it’s that hard work is the number one key to success.

She knows Mercedes is struggling with trying to be herself and yet keep her backup singing gig. And Santana knows that she’s always struggled with doing what other people tell her to do. Maybe the spotlight isn’t for her. Having someone monitoring what she posts on her Twitter account and telling her how to answer interview questions would get old very quickly. She doesn’t want to be some cookie-cutter celebrity that a PR team has put together.

Singing is something that has always come naturally to her. She didn’t take the voice lessons like Rachel. She sang for fun; Christina Aguilera was her go-to shower music and she would belt the entirety of the album before the water would start to run cold. She sang Amy Winehouse when she should have been doing her homework. While cooking with her mom they would sing along with the Oldies station. 

Taking her favorite hobby and making it into a job seems like ruining something near and dear to her heart. She doesn’t want to lose her love for singing, but pursuing it professionally seems like sucking all of the fun out of it.

But producing music is new and exciting. It’s the behind the scenes piece of something she loves. She ran her fingers along the sound board in the studio during the tour and she could actually picture herself sitting there, working with an artist to make something amazing.

Going back to school is scary - she didn’t handle the environment well the first time - but something about this trial run feels different. Her parents are supporting her pursuit of music. She doesn’t have to cheerlead to make it happen. And, as much as she doesn’t like to admit it, having Kurt and Rachel around makes her feel more at home in New York than she ever felt in Louisville.

She finally gets a night off nearly a week later and she spends the entire day in her pajamas being as lazy as possible. It’s the first time that she has an opportunity to read about all of the classes she needs for her major. 

Kurt comes wandering in around dinnertime, looking ragged from a long day at Vogue. She barely looks up from her course guide, caring much more about the potential of her future than how he’s throwing his away.

“Are you going back to school?” he asks, the tone of surprise very obvious.

“What’s it to you?” she retorts, closing the guide and dropping it back into the folder.

“Nothing, you just hadn’t mentioned wanting to go back to school, that’s all,” he defends, walking over to sit on the edge of the couch.

“I didn’t realize that I had to run all of my life plans past you.”

“God, Santana, you don’t need to jump down my throat about everything. I’m just trying to have a normal conversation with you. But music recording and not vocals?”

She ignores his inquiry into her major.

“Yeah, okay. So let’s have a real heart-to-heart. What’s the deal with Blaine and Adam?”

Kurt sighs and sinks back into the couch, avoiding her eyes.

“Adam isn’t returning my messages.”

“Well, no shit. I wouldn’t return them either. But what are you doing besides leaving ridiculously cliché voicemails?”

Kurt just shrugs, which is enough indication that he’s not really doing anything else to fix it.

“Relationships are the least of my problems. How the hell am I going to break it to Rachel that I’m not coming back to NYADA?”

“So you’ve made a decision then?” she questions, perking up a bit at the news.

He nods curtly.

“I can’t turn down this offer from Vogue. I love performing and NYADA is the best school in the country for musical theatre majors, but there’s still no guarantee that I’ll be able to have the career that I want from it. My professors are mostly washed up mediocre Broadway stars that gave it their all and still didn’t make it. But this position at Vogue is an opportunity that will grow into something huge. Isabelle Wright is a fashion goddess and she loves me. Most kids don’t get this kind of chance at something amazing.”

She can’t disagree with him. It’s hard to take the uncertain path. Rachel Berry has managed to skirt all hardships about making it in this industry, but she’s not the norm, nor has she ever been. Just because Rachel can make it on her first try definitely does not mean that Kurt could do the same, even if he focused entirely on performing.

“Is it where you heart lies?”

“I have no idea,” he admits, playing with his fingers in his lap. “Part of me feels like it’s just a way to avoid being let down. But I love fashion and I always have loved it just as much as performing. And maybe I won’t have to give up performing altogether. I just don’t think it’s worth paying NYADA tuition for something that I’m not putting all of my effort into.”

She can’t help but smile at him. She gets how hard it is to face the facts and deal with life decisions. For Christ’s sake, they’re still only teenagers, but they’re supposed to be able to know what they want to do for the rest of their lives. She hopes that this is what she actually wants for her future, but that could change too. Really, she just doesn’t understand people that can just march right into college and own that shit.

“I’m proud of you,” she says quietly, sliding over to lean her head on his shoulder. His arm wraps around her in a loose, one-armed hug.

“I’m proud of you too, Lopez. You’re going to produce some kick-ass albums some day.”

~!~!~!~

“Puck, you can make the trip for one fucking weekend. There is plenty of floor space here for you crash on. Just make it a roadtrip with the guys or some shit,” Santana reasons.

“Dude, why do you care so much if we come to see Berry’s lame ass show anyway?” Puck questions. She can hear the clinking of bottles as he cleans his apartment. Obviously it was a wild Thursday night with him and Finn.

“We’re a fucking family and we support each other. We all knew that the day would come that Berry would show us all up and after the years of slushies and insults, the least we can do is sit through her damn show with a fucking smile on our faces.”

He groans, but she knows that he agrees. If there’s anybody that has grown up since high school and regrets their prior actions, it’s Puckerman.

“I am NOT going to any lame ass cast party afterwards,” he warns. “I’ll talk to Sam and Artie.”

“I think Blaine and Finn are coming together, you could see if you guys could get in on those plans.” 

“You owe me for this, Lopez.”

“I’ve got a bottle of whiskey with your name on it,” she promises. “Plus, I work with some smoking hot single girls that I might be willing to introduce you to,” she adds.

“Fuck, you’re the best bro a guy could have. I’ll see you next Friday, for sure.”

She laughs as she hangs up the phone. The promise of booze and girls and Puck is easily hooked. Things sure haven’t changed.

The girls are going to be harder to deal with. Other than Rachel and Quinn, she hasn’t really been in touch with most of them outside the realm of their Facebook updates. She knows Brittany is out in L.A. with Mercedes, though she hardly talks to either one of them anymore. Tina is in Lima as far as she knows, but it’s more likely that Kurt talks to her than anybody else. Sugar is in France for the summer, living on her father’s yacht while he works.

Santana knows she can’t ask Rachel for her help in recruiting the glee kids to come to New York on such short notice, and Kurt has so much other shit going on that she has two choices: involve Mr. Schue or call Quinn.

Mr. Schue keeps tabs on all of them. Really, it’s kind of creepy how he manages to keep track of all the old crew better than most of the kids. She knows that it’s because he cares and wants to support them and he’s already committed to being at Rachel’s show. He’d be able to hunt down everybody in a matter of minutes, but Santana doubts that he’d be able to convince them to come all the way to New York with only the promise of seeing Rachel Berry achieve what the rest of them couldn’t do.

That leaves her with the option of ending her radio silence with Quinn. The idea of actually speaking directly to Quinn when they haven’t dealt with any of their issues is completely unappealing. She hates that she cares so much about opening night being special for Rachel. It’s not that she thinks that everybody else’s achievements aren’t as important, but seeing Rachel star on Broadway was something that was inevitable and it just feels like they should all experience it together.

She can’t suck it up to pick up the phone, but she manages to send a really straightforward e-mail enlisting Quinn’s help in getting the rest of the girls to New York for Rachel’s show. It’s basically a giant reunion if all goes well and she knows that it would completely make Rachel’s year.

Quinn e-mails Santana back two days later with confirmation that Brittany and Mercedes would be flying in. Tina hadn’t given a final answer yet, but Quinn told her to get in on the boys’ road trip from Lima if she wanted to join.

Now Santana’s only worry was where everybody was going to sleep. Rachel’s dads and Mr. Schue and Ms. Pillsbury had gotten hotel rooms, but she figured the glee kids were all going to want to crash here.

Rachel was going to need her own bed after a long night of performing, so that left a spot in Kurt’s bed, a spot in Santana’s, the couch, and all available floor space to fit ten people. It was going to be a crowded, hectic weekend to say the least, but hopefully Rachel would at least appreciate all the effort she has put into this.

~!~!~!~

“Quinn is taking a train in tomorrow,” Rachel casually mentions.

Their morning schedules are overlapping again and Santana has to deal with Rachel straightening her hair while she showers. She sticks her head out from around the curtain.

“What?”

“Quinn is coming in tomorrow afternoon.”

“Your show isn’t until Friday,” Santana reminds her. It’s only Monday. Why would Quinn be coming days before the show?

“She knows I’ve been stressed and you and Kurt are working so much that she offered to come help out around here.”

“We don’t need help. It’s not like the place is falling apart.”

“My dads are going to be here on Thursday. I don’t want them to think we’re living like uncivilized college students. Someone needs to help hide the liquor bottles and make this place family-friendly. Let’s face it, dealing with parents isn’t exactly your strong suit, Santana.”

Santana ducks back behind the curtain and lets the hot water hit her directly in the face. True, she doesn’t want the job of cleaning this place up so that it’s acceptable for Rachel’s dads. But she also doesn’t really want Quinn hanging around here all day. With her schedule, she’s home most of the hours that normal people are awake.

“It doesn’t take three days to clean this tiny fucking apartment,” Santana argues. Really, there’s absolutely no reason for Quinn to stay here for so long. Santana was already trying to get past the fact that they were going to have to see each other for the whole weekend while the rest of the glee club was visiting for opening night.

“Look, she’s my friend too. I need her help and she offered to come tomorrow. Sorry that you two have your issues, but she’s coming here to support me, not to badger you.”

Santana knows that she can’t argue with Rachel. Part of her hates that her life in New York is still so tangled with her old issues. Rachel should be able to see her friends, but it would be a lot easier if that friend wasn’t the same person that tried to kiss Santana at the airport the last time that she saw her.

She has no idea what time Quinn is getting in, but Santana gets up pretty early and cleans up her own room in hopes of keeping Quinn far away from it in her cleaning tirade later. As soon as she’s done, she heads out, figuring she’ll kill a few hours in a Starbucks somewhere before she has to work.

It’s a hazy day and she scowls at the joggers that make her feel bad about herself, even though just standing on the corner is making her sweat. There’s really not much of a walk from the subway to Starbucks, but it’s that kind of humidity that manages to soak through her shirt in a matter of minutes. Still, it has to be better than being stuck in her own apartment with just Quinn.

Santana doesn’t even know the last time that she hung out by herself and had a quiet day in the city. She picks a comfortable chair near the window so she can people watch as she sips at her venti iced coffee. 

As the minutes tick by, her thoughts just keep wandering back to what is going at the apartment. By now Rachel would have needed to leave for the theater and Kurt was already at Vogue before the sun came up. Quinn is probably there, wearing an old t-shirt with her hair pulled up. That image shouldn’t be nearly as appealing as it is in her mind, but there’s just something about casual, relaxed Quinn that is sexier than seeing her in those ridiculous cardigans.

She picks up her phone and flips through the pictures. There are a bunch of her new friends since she moved to New York, but as she gets farther back, she has a group of pictures from Mr. Schue’s wedding that her friends had sent her. There are the nauseating ones of Finn and Rachel undressing one another with their eyes on stage and big group ones where they are all hugging each other like they never left glee club in the first place. The one she’s looking for is mixed in, like it shouldn’t be any different from the others, even though it feels way different.

There is Quinn, her arms wrapped around Santana’s neck as they dance, their bodies pressed against one another. Santana’s face is kind of blocked from the camera, but she has a great view of Quinn’s happy smile as she looks off into the distance.

These past few months Santana has tried to not let herself dwell on what she sees in that picture. It’s a crappy shot from a camera phone that Sam sent her a few days after the wedding, when the emotional turmoil of it was still burning bright within her. 

Santana wonders if Quinn has seen it too. Does she see what Santana sees in that tiny pixelated memory of that perfect night? Is her memory just warped that everything about that night still remains untainted, even with everything that has happened in its wake?

She locks the phone again before she can let her mind completely take over. She wants to preserve that memory of how it was before things got complicated. The part that kills her is that she knows that they could have been even happier by now. They could have spent the summer gallivanting in the city sharing ice cream cones in Central Park and going to lame museums that Quinn would be enthralled with.

Now she isn’t sure that they’ll ever be able to have that carefree life together. With the amount of miscommunications and feelings that never quite match, she doesn’t see how it is possible.

But then why did Quinn look so hurt when Santana had avoided that kiss in the airport? If they were just supposed to be friends, it shouldn’t have been that big of a deal. Quinn wouldn’t have been crying on Rachel Berry’s couch if it wasn’t somehow a much bigger situation than Santana realized.

Yet it was Quinn that told her that the wedding was just a one night ordeal. It was just an experimentation to help her figure her own life out. It led her into the arms of some yuppie at Yale with no problem.

This week is going to be an absolute disaster. Because Santana knows if Quinn tries to kiss her again, she won’t have the power to turn her away a second time.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: I just wanted to address a couple of things that have come up in reviews lately. While this story is very heavily canon, it is only canon through episode 4x16. Some parts, such as Santana being a cage dancer or taking dance classes, are not included in this story. I haven’t touched on the Lima kids much at all, but I can assure you that Puck is most definitely not dating anybody that could be considered jailbait in this story. Also, if you’re looking for fluff, you are definitely in the wrong story. I have a bunch of fluffy Quinntana one-shots that might be a better place to find what you’re looking for. On a different note, quasi-suspect remains the best beta I could ask for.

Santana creeps across the floor on her tiptoes, shuffling quietly past where Quinn is sprawled out on the couch. She takes a deep breath when she finally reaches her own bed and she stretches her arms above her head, feeling the heaviness settle in them from a long night of work.

She’d love to take a shower to wash off the grime of the bar, but trying to get past Quinn after running the shower tonight without talking would be nearly impossible; Quinn is one of the lightest sleepers she has ever met. 

Instead she strips down, tossing her bar clothes into the corner where the smell of stale beer doesn’t reach her. She pulls a t-shirt over her head and rifles through her drawers for a pair of boxers. Normally she wouldn’t bother with so many layers - particularly given how hot and humid it’s been this summer - but she still needs to brush her teeth at least and giving Quinn a show is about the last thing she wants to do.

For someone who typically stomps around no matter the hour, Santana struggles to walk quietly across the living room. She pauses when Quinn sniffles in her sleep as she steps on a creaky floorboard, but her shoulders relax again when Quinn’s breathing returns to its steady sleeping rhythm.

She washes up quickly, cleansing her pores of makeup and sweat from a long day in the city and an even longer night at work. As she brushes her teeth, she can already see the bags forming under her eyes from her exhaustion; she’s been working an insane amount of hours lately and it’s taking its toll. But she’ll hide them with concealer tomorrow as she’s working another long shift; she’ll do anything it takes to avoid having the conversation with Quinn that she really doesn’t want to have.

Thankfully, Quinn doesn’t rouse as Santana creeps back towards her bed. She’s relieved to pull the curtain and separate herself from the hazy view of Quinn curled up on the couch. It has to be uncomfortable - the couch is ancient and lumpy - but she has her hand tucked under the pillow and her short hair falls wildly over her eyes. It makes her look incredibly peaceful.

Santana could spend all night sneaking glances of Quinn’s sleeping form, but she knows she shouldn’t be appreciating the curve of Quinn’s shoulder in her tank top. It’s easy to ignore the romantic feelings when Quinn is a couple hundred miles away, but it’s a lot harder to keep the friend mentality in place when Quinn is sleeping on the couch a few yards away.

Sleeping with headphones on isn’t the most comfortable thing, but Santana can’t fall asleep with the way she can hear Quinn rustling on the couch. She flips through her iPod, looking for a calming playlist that’ll settle her nerves enough to let her drift off to sleep.

The only reason that she wakes up in the morning is because Leigh texts her to ask if she wants to grab lunch before work since they haven’t seen much of each other lately. She agrees, if for nothing else but an excuse to spend less time in the apartment while Quinn is here alone. 

Kurt is miraculously still here when Santana emerges from her privacy curtain so she ducks into the shower before anybody can engage her at all. She gets ready in the bathroom away from the prying eyes and only gives up the sanctity of being behind the only lockable door in the entire apartment when she knows all she needs to do is grab her purse and make a dash for the door.

She’s three steps from the front door when the voice stops her in her tracks.

“Do you want some coffee for the ride or something?”

Why the fuck does Quinn’s voice have to be so raspy and concerned about Santana’s caffeine needs? In this moment, when she wants nothing to be able to avoid the fact that Quinn is even in New York.

She turns slowly on her heel, taking a deep breath before lets her eyes fall on the impeccably put-together blonde sitting at the kitchen table. The breath was useless; it’s stolen from her lungs at the sight of Quinn’s shy smile.

“Uh, nah, it’s cool. I have a lunch date.” The way Quinn’s face falls alarms her. Santana shakes her head. “No - not a date date, just lunch with a friend, I mean,” she tries to explain.

“It’s fine, Santana. You don’t need to explain what you do in your daily life,” Quinn jumps in, her fingers gripping tightly onto her own coffee mug.

Santana doesn’t know how to respond. They’re friends and this shouldn’t be so difficult. She isn’t supposed to feel guilty about having plans with a different friend when she didn’t invite Quinn here in the first place. She’s Rachel’s guest and Rachel should’ve made arrangements so that Quinn wasn’t just sitting in their apartment alone all day long.

“You could, uh, come if you want?” she offers. It’s completely out of obligation and she knows that Quinn sees that. The idea of sitting through an entire lunch with both Leigh and Quinn simultaneously is absolutely terrifying. Knowing her luck, they’ll hit it off even better than they did that night at the bar and she’ll be left sitting there awkwardly while they chat like old friends.

Quinn shakes her head firmly as she bites her lip. Santana hates that this is what their friendship has come to, but she doesn’t know how to handle whatever it is between them. It takes all of her energy to not look at Quinn, really look at Quinn. She’s scared of what she’ll find there.

“No, I’m fine.” 

Santana knows she should insist, but they both know it’s all just an act.

“Okay. Well then I guess I’ll see you later,” she says awkwardly. Quinn just gives her a curt nod and turns back to her crossword puzzle.

She’s off the hook, yet as soon as the door closes behind her, she feels horrible.

~!~!~!~

Santana isn’t happy to wake up to Rachel’s face hovering over her hours before she has any need to be awake.

“What is it?” she groans, pulling the pillow over her head.

“My dads are going to be here by five. You need to dress in something approved by Kurt, lock your dirty mouth away, and act like you’re a civilized human being until they are far away from your presence.”

Santana sits up and rubs at her bleary eyes. She glances at the clock: seven in the morning. Her shift didn’t finish until three, so that means she’s only about two hours into her beauty sleep routine.

“What the fuck are you rambling about, Midget?” Santana mumbles, trying to get her fuzzy head to focus on the jittery Rachel that is pacing next to her bed.

“You’re having dinner with us tonight. It’s been on the calendar for weeks, Santana! Please tell me you didn’t forget!”

Santana’s heart drops. She never reads the stupid calendar hanging on the fridge as Rachel usually also sends her a million e-mail reminders and at least one text message with an over-abundance of emojis. 

“Uh, lemme call around and see if I can get someone to cover my shift,” she responds, avoiding Rachel’s frantic eyes.

“Santana! You have to be there!”

“Chill out! I’ll figure it out, okay?”

Rachel glares at Santana, burning right through her. She knows she’ll be on the shit list for months if she doesn’t make it to this stupid family dinner.

Santana grabs her cell phone off of the nightstand and shoos Rachel out with her hand. She sends a mass text to all of her coworkers explaining the situation and hopes that someone will be nice enough to cover her shift. But as it’s barely past sunrise, she knows it’s going to be a waiting game for a few hours, so she drops the phone onto the pillow next to her and rolls over to catch up on her own sleep.

Ashten pulls through and offers to take the shift if Santana will work for her on Monday and Santana thanks her ten times before she leaves her room to share the good news with Rachel.

Rachel, Kurt, and Quinn are all moving around the apartment, straightening up stacks of DVDs and fluffing couch cushions. She’s never seen the place so clean. Rachel stops in her tracks when she sees Santana stretching as she surveys the condition of the living room.

“I got someone to cover for me so I’ll be at dinner. Is there something I should be doing?”

She can see Rachel’s relief that she hasn’t ruined the entire night. Part of her feels awful; it’s the night before Rachel’s show is opening and she’s already stressed beyond belief. Santana knows they just have a soundcheck this afternoon and that Rachel is supposed to be resting for her big night.

“You’ve been working so hard lately. I think we have everything under control here. There are bagels in the kitchen though, so help yourself.”

Rachel gives her a winning smile and a one-armed hug. Santana wants to insist that she’s a roommate here and that she should help get the place ready for Rachel’s dads. Rachel has been working just as hard as she has these past few weeks and she’s still pitching in.

Though, she looks around and the place already looks immaculate. Kurt just keeps wandering around to try and find something that is out of place, but there’s really nothing. She definitely missed the cleaning party (thank god for earplugs because she didn’t even hear the vacuum run) and she figures the best thing she can do at this point is eat and shower so that she can be ready for the arrival of Rachel’s dads with plenty of time to spare.

At four o’clock, they’re all skirting around one another in the cramped bathroom as they try to get ready. Santana backs off, not wanting to try and squeeze in next to Quinn to pluck her eyebrows, and instead carries her compact and tweezers into her room. She curses herself again for not getting a full length mirror to hang on her wall so that she could avoid some of the bathroom traffic, but she can make do with this to get her eyebrows under control and her lips painted in a bright, traffic-stopping red.

By four-thirty, they’re all completely ready and are twiddling their thumbs in the living room as they wait for Rachel’s dads to arrive. Their flight landed hours ago and they had called Rachel from their hotel, so Santana figures they will show up promptly at five o’clock if their child’s obsession with tardiness happens to come from them.

There’s a knock on the door at four fifty-eight and Rachel hops up from where she’s sitting between Quinn and Kurt on the couch to greet them. Santana tries to not stare at how good Rachel’s ass looks in the tight black dress. When she looks away, she notices Kurt glancing at her with his eyebrow quirked. Caught. Thankfully, Quinn seems to be more interested in her hands than with Santana’s wandering eyes.

They stand up simultaneously when Rachel re-enters the living room with her dads in tow. Santana has seen them before at show choir competitions and fundraisers, but she usually avoids directly having contact with parental figures whenever possible. Even Mrs. Pierce, who she has known since elementary school, still makes her nervous.

“Kurt, nice to see you,” the white dad says and Kurt leans forward to shake his hand.

“Nice to see you too, sir,” Kurt responds with a smile.

“Son, I’ve told you a million times to call me Hiram.” Kurt nods in acknowledgement, but Santana figures that Kurt will continue to call him “sir” all night regardless.

The black dad is hugging Quinn, who looks completely at home in his arms. Parents have always loved Quinn with her impeccable grades, her etiquette school manners, and her very, very conservative dresses. Santana tries to not scowl at them. Mostly, she feels awkward like these people are a family and she’s just a visitor.

“Dad, Daddy, this is our other roommate, Santana. You remember her talent from the Troubletones performances, surely.”

The black dad breaks away from where he’s still holding Quinn to walk towards her.

“Of course, dear. We don’t forget a voice like that. I’m LeRoy, and that’s my husband, Hiram.” He gestures towards the white dad.

Santana goes to hold out her hand, but he envelops her in an awkwardly tight hug. At least Rachel gives proper warning before she invades Santana’s personal space. It’s over quickly and he pats her on the shoulder fondly before moving aside so Hiram can also give her a hug in greeting. His is shorter and not as overwhelming, and, for some reason, she already feels warmly towards the Berry men.

She waits patiently for Rachel to give them a quick tour of the apartment, which they haven’t seen since they helped Kurt and Rachel move in. Kurt follows them, interjecting his comments into the conversation, while Quinn stands in the middle of the living room, her arms crossed over her chest.

Santana is desperate to ask when Quinn has had all this time to become best friends with Rachel’s parents because, as far as Santana knew, Quinn had never been over there until after graduation. But she’s realizing more and more that she doesn’t know Quinn nearly as well as she once thought.

When the tour is over, Santana follows them out the door, letting the rest of them carry the conversation as they walk towards the subway station. Rachel’s dads stroll slowly and chat casually, acting exactly like the Ohio tourists that they are. It’s endearing for all about two minutes until she realizes that she is starving and at this pace it’s going to take them two hours to get to the restaurant.

But it’s Rachel’s special night so Santana manages to swallow her complaints about the horrible humidity or how the insane amount of dirt on the Brooklyn sidewalks are going to ruin her shoes at this pace. She walks behind Rachel, who has an arm linked through each of her dads as they yammer away. Kurt stalks along Hiram’s side like he’s their long lost son, but Quinn hangs back, staying only a half step ahead of Santana.

Santana wants to talk to her, even if it’s ridiculously stupid small talk that she would exchange with an acquaintance. Better yet, she’d like to press Quinn’s shoulders against the brick wall of the bodega and kiss her with everything she’s got to make up for the fact that she turned away at the airport. What her heart wants and what her mind allows are completely different things though. So she stays silent and fusses with the zipper on her purse as a distraction until they’re all standing on the subway platform together and Rachel’s dads try to draw them into the conversation, which has turned to everybody naming their favorite one-hit wonder artist, and Santana has plenty to say on that topic.

The subway car is crowded with businessmen leaving work, which makes it easy to not talk to the group as they get separated by people in suits. Santana feels weird not having her headphones shoved firmly in place to ward off any friendly tourists and she catches a glimpse of Rachel’s dads chatting up some lady that is travelling with a toddler sitting on her lap. They are the epitome of tourists and the kind of people that Santana tries to avoid whenever she’s on public transit, but seeing Rachel eyeroll beside them like a true New Yorker is enough to make her smile.

When they emerge from the subway onto Canal Street, Rachel leads the way towards the restaurant. Santana’s internal compass still gets turned around every single time she comes up from the underground transit system, but Rachel doesn’t even hesitate before she starts walking to the left. They weave through the merchants and a few times Rachel has to remind them that they have a reservation to make because Mr. and Mr. Berry, along with Kurt, keep pausing to look at bags and sunglasses laid out on the tables along the edge of the sidewalk. Santana is with Rachel; she’s fucking starving and it feels like it’s one hundred degrees out here, even though it’s evening.

Santana’s relieved when they reach Little Italy and the smell of freshly cooked pasta escapes from the open windows of every restaurant on Mulberry Street. Italian men dressed in white dress shirts and crisp black pants thrust menus at them and yell out the specials, but Rachel keeps marching on her mission until she turns into one of the places.

They’re led through the place to a tiny outdoor patio that is nudged in between buildings, yet is still cute all the same. Rachel takes a seat, followed by her fathers and Kurt, who sit down across from her. That leaves Santana sitting next to Quinn, who immediately takes the middle seat next to Rachel. 

Santana tolerates the talk about Broadway shows and Rachel’s complaints about her makeup artist for the show because soon enough a steaming plate of penne alla vodka is dropped in front of her. It takes all of her energy to wait until everybody else has received their food before she picks up her fork to dig in.

Immediately, her elbow bumps into Quinn’s. She drops her fork onto her plate and drops her hand into her lap. Quinn glances over at her from where she’s attempting to cut up her chicken.

“Sorry,” Quinn mumbles, but doesn’t pause. 

Santana tries to slide her chair over a couple of inches discreetly, but she knows that the scratching of its legs on the cement is obvious and that Quinn can tell she’s trying to put a little bit of distance between them to avoid the awkwardness of Quinn’s elbow hitting her again. She curses herself mentally for not being more aware of the fact that Quinn was on her left side; it’s something she usually manages to avoid, even if it means making her friends switch seats so that she can be on the far left.

She hardly tastes her food after that moment, which is a shame because it smelled amazing when it was placed in front of her, but her mind is too preoccupied with the fact that her arm still tingles where Quinn touched it. Santana knows it’s silly and that it’s just the memory of it giving her the sensation so long after the contact, but it’s enough to make it so that Quinn completely takes over her mind for the entire duration of dinner.

Somehow, she manages to field Hiram’s questions about her job and about how she’s going back to school. Santana can’t help but notice the way Quinn’s head swivels towards her when she starts talking about the studio and her new major. She hates that she wonders if Quinn thinks it’s a good idea. This is something she is doing for herself and Quinn’s opinions shouldn’t matter even in the slightest.

But having Quinn’s approval has been part of her life for so long. As Cheerio captain, Quinn had a say in pretty much everything Santana did for the majority of their high school careers. True, Santana didn’t always listen to her, but the fun she had was worth the lectures Quinn gave afterwards.

Yet, with this, she craves the stamp of approval from Quinn Fabray. She wants Quinn to be proud of her that she’s finally working towards being someone. What she doesn’t expect, however, is the slight glimpse under Quinn’s shell that she gets as Santana is telling Hiram about what she wants to do with her degree down the line. It looks almost like Quinn might be disappointed that she didn’t know this news before Rachel’s dads. She was a bigger part of Santana’s life, but the nearly non-existent contact over the past few weeks had kept Quinn from hearing the news first.

Santana realizes that it’s Rachel that gets to know these things first lately. Could it really be that Rachel has become her actual best friend? Santana knows she typically strikes out when it comes to being a good friend (sleeping with her friends has probably led to that), but somehow she seems to be managing well with Rachel and Kurt both.

For once, her romantic life is separate from her close friendships and she realizes that this is probably a really, really good thing.

Quinn can be a love interest without needing to be her best friend as well. But is Quinn really able to be a love interest when Santana has no idea where they stand? All she does know for sure is that she and Quinn can’t work as just friends. Sure, they can tolerate one another peacefully like this for the sake of their mutual friends, but Santana knows that they’re not the type of people that will be able to survive as friends who tell one another their deepest fears without crossing that thin line between dating and friendship. She can’t continue to play hopscotch with that line, though, or she’s going to completely lose her mind.

This sense of clarity is something that Santana hasn’t had in all of the months since the wedding. It’s like a giant wave of relief washes over her at the idea of compartmentalizing her emotions. Granted, it’s easier said than done, but at some point she knows that she’s going to have to talk to Quinn about this tension between them, and it’ll be easier to do that if she has some sort of handle on what’s going on in her own head.

Rachel’s dads insist on picking up the bill and Santana is the first to thank them politely, which again seems to catch Quinn off guard. Have they really become that much of strangers that Quinn hardly recognizes her anymore? Santana hates that something like good manners can cause Quinn to look at her like that, but she shrugs it off as they head out of the restaurant and stroll along Little Italy.

The streets are still bright despite the fact that night has fallen, and while usually Santana hates the fact that you can’t stargaze in this city because of how bright it is, she enjoys the street fair feeling that Little Italy offers. They stop at a gelato stand, though only Quinn and LeRoy end up getting any; Rachel starts rambling about preserving her vocal cords for the show tomorrow night and Kurt grabs the waist of his pants and complains about already destroying his diet with the huge plate of pasta he just ate. 

Santana just doesn’t feel in the mood for something so sweet after having such an enormous meal, but she doesn’t fail to notice the way that Rachel takes the spoon from Quinn’s hand and samples her gelato with the tiniest of bites before she hands it back to Quinn. They’re such easy friends despite all of the years of Quinn making Rachel’s life a living hell, though Santana figures that the same could be said about her and Rachel too at this point. 

Rachel and Santana share pretty much everything, as privacy is basically impossible in their apartment and, surprisingly enough, she and Rachel enjoy a lot of the same foods, despite Rachel’s weird aversion to meat products. It’s become habit to steal a bite of Rachel’s bagel when they catch up on the DVR on Sunday mornings and Rachel always takes a sip from Santana’s coffee before passing it to her. They’re weird quirks, but Santana likes having someone that she doesn’t want to cut when they reach over and stab at the food on her plate.

Santana knows it’s ridiculous and she has absolutely no reason to be jealous, but she hates that Rachel has reached that comfort level with Quinn too. It took Santana years to get to that place in her friendship with Quinn, but Rachel was able to do it in a matter of months. Quinn is like an extended member of the Berry family, which Santana really can’t figure out since it’s not like they’re in Lima anymore where she’d be stopping over for dinner.

Rachel seems to realize that Santana is being quiet tonight and she hangs back as Quinn chats with her dads about the production Quinn is auditioning for during the fall semester. Santana doesn’t roll her eyes when Rachel loops an arm through Santana’s and cuddles into her shoulder.

“Thanks for coming,” Rachel says sincerely, giving her arm a little squeeze.

“Of course, Rach,” Santana shrugs, acting like it wasn’t a big deal. Even with Rachel’s condescending freak out at her in the wee hours of the morning, Santana still wanted to make sure that Rachel’s opening night weekend goes perfectly for her. Rachel has worked so hard for this. “How do you feel about tomorrow?”

“I think I’m ready. Obviously, I’m still terrified because there are going to be critics and avid Broadway fans in the audience, but at least I’ll have my dads and you three there. I figured nobody would want to come once I got my big break with the way I threw it in everybody’s faces every chance I got in high school,” Rachel admits.

“You have more fans already than you could even imagine,” Santana promises, nudging Rachel with her shoulder. “I’m excited to see the production.”

“I never thought I’d see the day where Santana Lopez and Quinn Fabray were the people that wanted to sit in the front row for my Broadway debut.”

Santana doesn’t know how to respond. If anyone had asked her four years ago where life would take her, it definitely would have never included Rachel Berry. Rachel was right though; they were actual friends and she was genuinely excited to be sitting in the front row at Rachel’s Broadway debut. Rachel seems to understand that Santana doesn’t have the words to express whatever it is that she’s thinking, but for once Rachel is content to walk along in complete silence.

Rachel goes to bed almost the moment they return to the apartment, even though it’s barely past nine. Santana figures she won’t sleep all night anyway, but it’s probably best that she at least attempts to get a good night’s sleep. Kurt has to work for a while since he didn’t go into the office today, so he gets out his laptop and headphones and spreads out over the dining room table.

This leaves Santana and Quinn eying one another awkwardly. Santana really doesn’t want to deal with the awkward small talk and pretending like they’ve actually managed to master this friendship thing when it’s so far from the truth. Being civil in a group where they don’t need to talk directly is bearable, but actually spending time together alone is a whole other ballgame.

“I think I’m just gonna -” Santana says awkwardly, gesturing towards her bed. Hiding out behind her curtain might be immature, but it’s easier than dealing with this.

“We can sit on opposite sides of the couch, Santana. I promise to give you a three foot radius at all times,” Quinn says and Santana hates the slightly mocking tone. She’s sick of her emotions feeling like a giant joke.

“Sorry, but I don’t feel like playing games tonight.”

“What has gotten into you? I thought we were actually past the drama.” Quinn sounds exasperated and Santana cringes. She wants to be past the drama. She doesn’t want to deal with all of this shit anymore. But it just seems that they’re never going to be completely on the same page. Until they manage to find a way to get their ideals to line up, there seems like no way to keep the drama away.

“Are we ever going to be past the drama, Q?” She’s exhausted from these months of going back and forth with Quinn. The last thing she really wants is to fight with Quinn, but she can’t keep it in anymore. She’s been downplaying her feelings this entire time and it’s getting her nowhere.

“Do you even realize how much I care about you?” Quinn just kind of blankly stares through her, like the words don’t make any sense. “Q, I love you. Worse, I’m in love with you.”

“Well, I mean the wedding definitely sparked a lot of new emotions for both of us and I know it’s been taking me a long time to sort through them and deal with what all of this means, but you should at least know by now that I care about you too, San,” Quinn rambles.

“This isn’t something that just magically started at the wedding for me. That night wasn’t just me wanting a meaningless one-night stand with the girl who topped me in everything through my entire high school life. I knew I felt something for girls from the very first day you walked onto that football field for Cheerio tryouts freshman year because I couldn’t stop the way the butterflies flooded my stomach at the very sight of you. You’ve always done something to me that I could never quite explain. The wedding was just finally the first time that I thought maybe, just maybe, you might feel the same way about me as I’ve felt about you for years.”

She has to look away from Quinn from the moment the last word falls from her lips. It’s bad enough that what she’s kept locked inside for so long is hanging heavily between them, but she doesn’t want to see Quinn’s reaction to hearing that she’s been pathetic and creepy pretty much since the beginning of their friendship.

“That long?” Santana chest tights painfully at how small Quinn sounds. She doesn’t trust her own voice so she just gives a tiny nod.

“Santana, I -” Quinn starts, but she drops off like she has no idea how to properly respond. There’s no big declaration of love in response, though Santana didn’t expect one. She’s known that Quinn wasn’t nearly at that point since the trip to New Haven had blown up in her face.

“I can’t do this casual crap with you, Quinn. I need to take care of myself.” She takes a deep breath and forces herself to actually look Quinn in the eyes. “I’ll be civil when we need to be in social situations and I’m here as your friend if you really need me, but things can’t keep happening like they have been. This hurts too much.”

Quinn opens her mouth to respond, but just ends up closing it again. Santana gives her the weakest of smiles as she fights back the tears starting to well up in her eyes. She tears her gaze from Quinn and moves towards her bedroom area.

Santana lays on her bed, fully clothed, for hours. Quinn knows how she feels now and she can’t take it back. There’s so much more she could add, so much more that she could tell Quinn about how deeply she cares about her, but there’s no point. Quinn has the knowledge and hopefully she can respect how Santana feels about it.

It’s not until Santana sees the light in the living room go out over the edge of her curtain that Santana yanks off her dress and crawls under the blankets, burrowing herself in. The comfort of her bed does nothing for her pounding heart, but it’s better than nothing.


	13. Chapter 13

Of course their flight would be late. It’s already bad enough that Santana had to get up way earlier than any human should to go collect Brittany and Mercedes from JFK airport, but now she’s standing at the arrivals board, watching their flight blink with the news of its delay. Thank god for the presence of a Starbucks in the waiting area because if she has to sit here and relive the memory of saying goodbye to Quinn here a few weeks ago, she’s going to need a whole lot of caffeine.

Her saving grace is that the arrivals area is just a huge line of baggage claims with some random little kiosks and it looks nothing like the security lines that Quinn tried to kiss her in front of. Still, this place makes her stressed and she’s ready to collect her friends so they can head back to the City and get ready for Rachel’s show.

She’s sitting there for almost two hours when the board finally shows that Mercedes and Brittany’s flight is unloading. It’s another half an hour before they walk out of a hallway towards the baggage claim. Before Santana can even get to her feet, Brittany is galloping through the crowd towards her. Santana doesn’t fight the strong hug that Brittany gives her, even though it knocks some of the air right out of her lungs. Everything about Brittany is familiar - even though her hair is longer and lighter and her skin sparkles with freckles from the California sun - and Santana drinks her in happily.

Mercedes waits patiently through their reunion, but when Brittany finally pulls away and bounces off towards the baggage claim, she steps into Santana’s arms for a much shorter hug.

“You look good, girl,” Mercedes tells her, reaching up to flatten a stray piece of hair of Santana’s hair. 

Santana takes a second to scan Mercedes’s outfit and her perfectly done hair and makeup (which seems unfair considering the amount of time she just spent on a plane at an unflattering hour of the morning).

“Thanks,” she replies casually. “But you look fantastic.”

Mercedes beams at her and Santana notices that she seems to have lost some weight as well. She looks healthy and she’s practically glowing with happiness.

Brittany calls them over and they walk over to stand next to her as she pulls her canary yellow suitcase from the conveyor belt. Mercede’s suitcase come around five minutes later and Brittany helps her pull it off. They both look at Santana expectantly and she leads them through the airport towards the AirTrain.

It’s a long ride back to the City this way, but it’s cheap and relatively convenient. Thankfully, the flight delay causes them to be behind the commuter rush and they manage to score seats when they switch over to the subway in Jamaica. Brittany yammers on about her odd jobs in Los Angeles, which range from dog-walker to part time hand model, and about her new love interest, a barista and amateur surfer named Carly.

Mercedes is quiet about things in her own life, giving the floor to Brittany instead. Santana has never doubted that Brittany would make friends and live happily no matter where she ended up, but Mercedes was a different story.

“How’s L.A. for you?” she finally gets around to asking when Brittany gets distracted by a middle-aged man who enters their subway car with a kitten in his arms.

“Oh, you know, it’s the land of the rich and famous who live for their plastic surgery.” 

It’s incredibly vague and tells Santana absolutely nothing about what is actually going on Mercedes’s life. It’s also an answer Santana is refusing to accept as the end of the conversation, because Mercedes wouldn’t get that happy glow if things in L.A. weren’t going well.

Then it clicks.

“Oh my god, you’re getting laid,” Santana blurts out and she can see the embarrassment creep onto Mercedes’s features. “Who’s the guy?”

Mercedes fiddles with the top of her suitcase and bites her lip. Santana figures it can’t be anyone from Lima since she knows Mercedes hasn’t been home in months, which means it must be some new guy that she met in Los Angeles.

“He plays football for UCLA,” she comments. “He’s going to be a senior this year.”

“Ohh, going for the older men I see, Wheezy,” Santana teases. Mercedes slaps her arm playfully.

It feels good to be around her friends again. They joke back and forth for the remainder of the ride and the short walk from the subway station to the apartment. Rachel is gone - she is having brunch with her dads before heading to the theater for her soundcheck - and Kurt and Quinn are camped out on the couch with their breakfast perched on their laps.

Food is quickly abandoned when they realize the guests have started to arrive. Brittany pummels into Quinn’s side, which causes Quinn to release a girlish giggle. Santana looks away; she wants to join them and become a tangle of limbs like they used to when Brittany would get home from camp at the end of the summer and they were finally reunited. Brittany is completely absorbed in Quinn and doesn’t seem to sense the awkwardness between her two friends at all.

Mercedes and Kurt are squealing and jumping as they hug. Santana stands there, left out from the reunions altogether. It’ll only be a couple of hours before the Lima crew arrives and the apartment becomes a zoo, so she ignores the happy jabber from the living room and moves into the kitchen to make herself breakfast.

There’s a big paper bag of bagels that Kurt and Quinn must have picked up this morning. Santana takes her time slicing one and dropping it into the toaster. While she’s waiting for it to pop, she pulls out another bagel and slathers it in cream cheese and jelly for Brittany. Mercedes is too absorbed in talking to Kurt still for Santana to ask her what she wants, but she butters her own bagel when it pops and carries the two plates into the living area.

Kurt offers to play the good host to Mercedes, so Santana goes back into the kitchen to grab some cups and the container of orange juice from the fridge. She sits on her knees next to the coffee table while Brittany fills Quinn in on her experience as a genius at MIT.

It’s impossible to not notice the way that Quinn’s eyes flit towards her randomly, like she’s afraid of Santana not being included. Brittany remains oblivious as she fills them in on Lord Tubbington’s adventures with the lady cats of Los Angeles. Brittany is usually quite in tune with Santana’s emotions, and maybe Santana and Quinn are doing a decent job in hiding the tension between them, but they haven’t spoken directly to one another at all since Santana retreated to her bedroom the night before.

When her phone goes off with Puck’s face lighting up on the screen, she excuses herself away from her loudly talking friends in order to answer it.

“We’re here, bitch!” he yells in her ear as soon as she answers. “Come let us in!”

He ends the phone call before she has a chance to respond, but she walks back through the apartment and slips into her flip-flops by the door so that she can go downstairs to let them in.

It’s like being hit by an avalanche as soon she pushes the door open. There’s a group hug and yelling and laughter. Basically, it’s like being back in the choir room again after summer vacation, only this time they have actually been separated for months.

She leads them upstairs, not bothering to try and make them keep the volume down because really, there are just too many of them to control. The door to the loft swings open as they reach the landing to show Kurt standing there grinning.

Chaos ensues immediately: Finn gives his step-brother a one-armed hug, Brittany nearly squishes Tina with the force of her hug. Puck shows Quinn a picture of Beth from his visit with her last week, while Blaine (and weirdly enough Sam) exclaim over Mercedes’s new haircut. Santana feels overwhelmed by so many people crowded into their small apartment, yet somehow it makes it feel even more like home.

In her attempt to avoid having to directly converse with Quinn - as she’s not opening up that can of worms until Quinn is finally ready to actually respond to the bombs she dropped last night - Santana joins in on Kurt and Finn’s conversation on the other side of the room.

Mr. Schue arrives with Miss Pillsbury in the early evening and he orders them all pizza, which they eat while all sitting around the living room. They reminisce about early Rachel Berry and exclaim over the fact that she’s actually going to be on a Broadway stage tonight in front of their very eyes.

Before long, it’s time to get dressed and out the door. Mr. Schue leaves in order to meet up with Rachel’s dads before the show, leaving the kids to get ready on their own. The boys break out a bottle of vodka and they pass it around as they pull wrinkled dress shirts and slacks out of their duffel bags.

Kurt, who is refusing to be seen with them at this kind of event like that, gathers up their clothes and starts ironing while the girls and Blaine fight for all of the free mirrors in order to do their hair and put on their makeup. Quinn, Santana notices, takes off for Rachel’s mirror at the first opportunity. She gives up the bathroom to Blaine and Tina and heads for her own room to curl her hair.

By the time she emerges, fully dressed and made up, the boys are pulling on crisp shirts and pants with proper creases ironed into them. Kurt is fussing over the fact that Puck and Sam didn’t even bother to pack ties and pulls out a selection of them, insisting that they are going to be underdressed otherwise. Somehow, Kurt has found the time to fix his own hair and is in dress pants and a classic white dress shirt with cufflinks in place. 

As soon as he gets Puck situated with ties, he heads back into his living space and picks out his bowtie. Santana doesn’t fail to notice that Blaine follows him. She watches through the space in the curtain as Blaine ties the powder blue monstrosity around Kurt’s neck. He does it with such care that for a second Santana forgets that this is Kurt’s high school sweetheart that cheated on him the second Kurt took off to follow his dreams.

Tonight isn’t the time to bring it up, however. It’s Rachel’s time to shine and all of their ridiculous drama needs to fall to the wayside for the time being. Santana knows she’ll deal with Kurt at some point about it, but right now she needs to round up the troops and get them all into midtown for the show.

She grabs the tickets for her, Kurt, and Quinn that Rachel left on the fridge. They’re all for the front row. She doesn’t think about logistics as she checks with the others that they have their tickets and money for the subway before she’s ushering them out of the apartment and locking the door behind them.

It’s a relief when they finally pile out of the subway car and emerge in the theater district. As always, Santana is turned around when she reaches the street level. Kurt takes control and marches them towards the theater.

There’s a murmur of excitement when they reach the block where the show is running. They haven’t started letting people into the theatre yet, so there are crowds of people along the sidewalk. People are being ushered into a line, but their group stops dead in their tracks when the sign comes into view.

High above their heads on the marquee is Funny Girl displayed in blinding lights. And underneath it, though slightly less flashy, is Rachel’s name. Most of them pull out their phones and snap pictures of the sign and Santana feels a swell of pride from deep in her chest. This feels like a win for all of them; like somehow by Rachel Berry’s name being the headline means they’ve all achieved something great.

Once the doors open and their tickets get scanned, Kurt, Quinn, and Santana peel away from their friends. Their friends head up the flights of stairs to their far-back Mezzanine seats, while the three of them are lead down through the orchestra section. The usher hands them each a PlayBill and gestures to their rows.

Hiram and LeRoy are already seated in the front row and Mr. Schue and Miss Pillsbury are sitting directly behind them. They greet them and Mr. Schue smiles happily at them from his second row seat.

“Mr. Schue, you should get to be in the front row for this,” Kurt says, and hands him his ticket. Santana follows suit and gives Miss Pillsbury her. “We can sit in the second row. You should get to see your first glee club star with a perfect view.”

Mr. Schue tries to protest, but ultimately gives in. Santana files into his empty seat and she’s immediately followed by Quinn.

“Your seat is in the front row,” I remind her, focusing on the PlayBill in my hands. 

“Kurt is her best friend. He should get to sit there,” Quinn argues. Kurt hears this and shrugs, obviously agreeing that of the three of them, he probably should be the one to get a front row seat. He sits down in the seat between Mr. Schue and LeRoy and flips open his own PlayBill.

Santana pulls out her cell phone and silences it before she forgets, but then starts playing Candy Crush as she waits for the lights to dim. She has three hours of trying to avoid bumping Quinn’s elbow on their shared armrest that she hadn’t been prepared for. It’s already been an incredibly long day and Santana wants to just be able to enjoy getting to see her roommate perform on the biggest night of Rachel’s life without having to worry about stupid little things.

Santana glances at the time and stands up suddenly.

“What are you doing?” Quinn asks curiously, looking up at her.

“Going to use the bathroom before the show starts,” Santana states, moving past Quinn’s knees quickly before Quinn can offer to join her.

Thankfully, the line for the ladies’ room is short, but Santana takes her time to delay her return to her seat. She really doesn’t need to touch up her makeup already, but she does anyway as she kills the minutes until the curtain comes up.

The lights flicker to alert people that it’s almost showtime the moment she gets back to their row. Quinn gets up awkwardly to let her file past and Santana mumbles her thanks as she gets situated in her seat. She folds her arms across her lap, keeping her elbow away from the armrest and hopes that she can manage to avoid it for the entirety of the show.

The lights go down and the orchestra picks up. Quinn shifts in her seat until she’s sitting rigidly straight with her eyes staring directly at the stage.

When Rachel appears on stage, it’s like everything else melts away. Santana has never been able to deny that Rachel is easily the most talented person she has ever met. In Santana’s opinion, despite having years of experience more than Rachel, April Rhodes and Shelby have never even come close to matching up to Rachel’s sheer talent.

From the very first note, Santana can’t pull her eyes away from Rachel. She doesn’t catch any of the scenery or the background dancing because Rachel literally becomes the entire show. She sparkles exactly in the way that she did any time she would sing a solo at a show choir competition, but everything seems to be amplified under the expensive spotlights of a Broadway stage. Every second is mesmerizing and Rachel is spot on from beginning until end, despite the fact that opening nights are notorious for having kinks that still need to be worked out.

During intermission, Quinn takes off for the ladies’ room. Santana breathes a sigh of relief because it means that Quinn won’t try to make useless small talk. She reads through the PlayBill that she had neglected before the show and pauses at Rachel’s bio. All of the other leads have laundry lists of productions that they’ve been in. Rachel’s is nearly empty; she hasn’t even done a decent Off-Broadway show before this role due to her NYADA schedule. She uses the space instead to thank her dads and her friends for their support.

It’s funny that to think only a few short years ago, she would have never been one of those friends that Rachel is referencing. In fact, a few years ago, Rachel wouldn’t have had any friends to mention at all. It makes Santana glad that most of the glee club was able to make it here for Rachel.

As soon as the show is over, an usher comes over to Rachel’s dads and tells them to have the group wait here and that Rachel will come see the group as soon as she’s done with her interview and a quick meet and greet with some fans.

The fact that Rachel Berry has been on Broadway for one show and already has fans to meet is astounding, but completely deserved. The rest of the group descends from the upper level once Santana texts Puck to alert them. 

With the rest of their friends present, Santana moves out of her seat, putting a few feet of space between her and Quinn. She fills Mr. Schue in on her new plans and he gets excited. Even if he was a dumb ass Spanish teacher, he’s still one of the most supportive people she’s ever met.

She has no idea how long it’s been before Rachel finally emerges from the side of the stage. Rachel’s face is scrubbed clean from all the stage makeup and she’s wearing a simple black dress with flats. Santana personally thinks she looks exhausted - it’s probably from the huge adrenaline crash - but Rachel looks so excited to see the whole group together.

“What are you all doing here?!” she exclaims, skipping down the steps on the side of the stage and accepting the huge bouquet of flowers from her fathers with a kiss to each of their cheeks before she starts hugging each person individually.

“Santana wanted to make your opening night extra special so she helped arrange for us all to come out for the weekend,” Puck explains, giving Santana a little grin as he runs his hand over his shaved head.

Rachel’s head snaps around until Santana is met with her shocked expression. Rachel nearly hurdles the first row of chairs so that she can give Santana a bone-crushing hug.

“Thank you,” Rachel whispers near Santana’s ear. Santana just shrugs in Rachel’s arms.

“It was nothing. Really.”

Rachel holds Santana for a moment longer, squeezing her shoulders tightly before she finally releases her.

Santana waits patiently as Rachel chats with all of them about the show and thanks them all for coming. Her dads are yawning and stretching, so she hugs them goodbye and promises to see them in the morning. Mr. Schue and Miss Pillsbury also take off after congratulating her for the millionth time.

“Do you have cast things you need to do tonight?” Finn asks, his hands shoved deeply into the pockets of his khaki pants. Santana narrows her eyes at him; if he thinks he’s getting lucky on Rachel’s celebration night, she will personally remove his balls.

“I don’t; our cast party isn’t until Sunday after we conclude opening weekend.”

His face lights up and Santana makes a mental note to keep him as far away from Rachel as physically possible in their cramped apartment.

As not everybody has a fake ID, the logical thing to do is go back to the apartment and hold their own little reunion party. Santana had stocked up the night before and once they all get back and the boys yank off their ties, she pulls the bottles of wine and liquor out from the cabinet under the sink.

She pours herself a rum and coke and pours some red wine for Rachel before carrying them both into the living room. Rachel is nestled on the couch between Finn and Kurt and she leans forward to accept the glass appreciatively. Santana is tempted to shove herself into the tiny space between Finn’s gigantic arm and Rachel’s thigh, but the idea of being pressed up against the overgrown man-child is repulsive enough to convince her to settle onto the floor next to Sam instead.

Puck and Blaine go into the kitchen to mix some drinks for the others and they hand out their concoctions to each person before settling down on the floor themselves. Santana doesn’t miss the giant gulp that Quinn takes when Blaine gives her a cup. This night could definitely end up getting sloppy. It wouldn’t be the first trainwreck glee club party she’s ever been to.

They talk about the show for a while and Rachel tries to catch up with everybody since she missed their afternoon together. Eventually the liquor bottles migrate into the living room so they don’t even have to get up to refill their glasses and Santana can feel the rum working its magic within her own bloodstream if her slightly fuzzy head is anything to go by.

“We should sing karaoke!” Kurt announces. 

Santana shuts the idea down immediately, figuring that their neighbors already hate the fact that a dozen rowdy teenagers have taken over the apartment and they don’t need to add in loudly singing show tunes to that.

“Why not some good old fashioned truth or dare?” Puck suggests. Sam leans forward so they can pound fists.

“Or we can just hang out and drink without stupid games,” Santana reminds them. A bar would be a million times better than feeling like she is back in high school.

Before they can settle the debate, however, there’s a knock at the door. They all freeze and Rachel stares at Santana like she’s mentally asking what they should do.

“I’ll get it,” Rachel decides, and she stands up from her place on the couch. Santana follows closely behind her, figuring Rachel could use some help if it’s a neighbor looking to complain about their noise level.

What she’s not expecting to see is Brody, dressed in crisp black pants with a light blue shirt and striped tie loose around his neck, standing there with a bouquet of sunflowers.

“Uh, hi,” Rachel says shyly, moving aside so that he can step into the apartment.

“I just wanted to say congratulations and that you were amazing tonight,” Brody drawls, his donkey face conforming into a stage-worthy smile. He holds out the flowers to Rachel, who looks stunned to see them, but snaps into action.

“Thank you. They’re beautiful.” It’s the truth; at least Brody has some taste.

Rachel gestures for him to follow her into the kitchen so that she can put them in a vase. She goes to work trimming the stems while he fills up the vase with water.

“You make a wonderful Fanny. Not that there were any doubts,” Brody tells her, and every ounce of it sounds genuine. As much as Santana wants to continue babysitting them, she knows that Rachel can handle herself these days.

Santana plops down against the cushions on the floor again. Puck has apparently gotten a game of Kings going instead while she was gone judging by the cards spread out on the coffee table. Plus, Tina is yelling at Kurt to drink for his slow pointing reflexes. She has no interest in playing games, but these are her friends and she’s definitely not going to be the wet blanket of the party.

So when Blaine pulls a card and announces that it’s Never Have I Ever time, she sighs, but picks up her drink and holds up her fingers. He says something idiotic about never smoking weed, leaving only him, Kurt, and Quinn with all of their friends. Santana’s a little surprised about Tina, but she doesn’t have too much time to think about it before they’re moving on.

“Never have I ever had sex with someone in this room,” Tina announces with a smirk. 

It’s almost comical how fast fingers are lost. Mercedes and Tina are the only two that aren’t affected. Quinn raises her cup to her lips and it’s Santana that she’s looking directly at as she does so. Santana feels warm from the eye contact. She knows that Quinn has at least slept with Puck - which is definitely public knowledge - so it isn’t like anybody will be questioning who she has hooked up with. 

Most glee hookups were public knowledge and nobody seemed surprised by the results of the question, yet for some reason, Santana felt exposed. It wasn’t news that she had hooked up with Finn, Puck, Sam, and Brittany. Literally half of the room were her high school conquests. Somehow though, Quinn seems to be the only one that matters.

“Santana, are you paying attention?” Kurt scolds, looking at her expectantly. 

“Uh, sorry,” she says, pulling her gaze away from Quinn. “What was the question?”

“Never have I ever had a threesome,” Sam repeats.

Santana lifts her drink and Brittany reaches over to tap hers against it with an amused smile. Santana just rolls her eyes before she takes the obligatory sip.

Over Quinn’s shoulder, Rachel comes around the end of the bookcase with Brody in tow. It takes people a moment to notice their presence, but Santana doesn’t miss the redness creeping up Finn’s neck. 

“Guys, this is my friend Brody,” Rachel introduces and Brody steps out from behind her and gives a little wave. As they were never Facebook official, Santana is unsure of how much the others know about Brody’s history with Rachel and Finn.

“What are you doing here?” Finn growls and leaps up from the couch.

“Finn, he’s my guest. This is my special night and Brody is welcome to join us,” Rachel asserts sternly, staring at Finn until he slowly backs down into his seat like a trained puppy.

They pick up with the game and Brody sits down as far away from Finn and Santana as he can manage, which means he ends up next to Blaine, who eyes him up like he’s a piece of meat. Brody doesn’t seem to notice - or if he does it doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest - as he sips from his wine and focuses on Rachel.

Somehow the rest of the night seems to go smoothly. It’s only when Rachel announces that she needs to get a good night of rest that anybody else starts to yawn and acknowledge what a long day it has been. Santana watches as Rachel walks Brody to the door. He kisses her cheek and lingers by her ear for a moment. When he pulls away, Rachel’s cheeks are flushed and she’s grinning happily. Santana hopes that the charming personality isn’t going to end up negating his questionable actions.

“What are the sleeping arrangements?” Finn asks. “Is it just first-come first-serve for soft surfaces?”

Santana knows he’s trying to weasel himself into Rachel’s bed. Her roommate needs a refreshing night of sleep, and having a giant ape in her bed is definitely not going to do that.

“Kurt, you shack up with Rachel tonight,” Santana demands, looking at her other roommate pointedly. He’s tiny and understands Rachel’s sleep patterns the best. Plus, that will keep Kurt from making poor decisions with the presence of Blaine in his bed. “Quinn should get a bed for her back.” She looks around the apartment. Tina, Brittany, and Mercedes are the only girls left besides herself and she knows that she definitely cannot handle Quinn shacking up with her.

“I’ll share with you and Quinn,” Brittany says cheerfully. “It’ll be just like old times.”

“I don’t have a king-sized bed here, Britt. We can’t all fit anymore.” Brittany looks slightly crestfallen. “Why don’t Mercedes and Quinn take Kurt’s bed though? You can crash with me and then Tina can have the couch.”

“Where are the rest of us supposed to go?” Finn pouts. Santana knows that he won’t flat out argue with her because it’ll end in a scene that he’ll never win.

“Grab some carpet, Finnocence,” she says, not bothering to look back at him.

Kurt sets up an air mattress on the floor, which appeases Finn slightly. Tina agrees to share it with Blaine, which gives Finn the couch to himself. With everybody at least mildly appeased, Santana brushes her teeth and heads towards her bedroom area.

She catches a glimpse of Quinn as she passes, who doesn’t look completely pleased with the arrangement. Mercedes is rambling on her side, but Quinn isn’t listening. When Santana follows her gaze, she sees that it falls on Brittany, who is sprawled across the top of Santana’s comforter in nothing but a very flimsy tank top and her underwear.

Quinn surely knows that her sharing a bed with Brittany means nothing. Brittany has her new girlfriend, Carly, and Santana is not that desperate to get laid that she’d resort to bringing back the past with Brittany. Though judging by the unhappiness that is quite evident in Quinn’s expression, the blonde is definitely not happy with this arrangement.

“Can we snuggle, San?” Brittany asks innocently and Santana cringes at the way Quinn’s jaw tightens against the words.

“I’ll be back in a minute, B,” Santana tells her. Brittany nods happily from her place on Santana’s bed and picks up her phone from the pillow next to her. Quinn’s attention turns to Santana.

Santana wanders back into the kitchen to see Finn with his hand on Rachel’s arm and Rachel looking exhausted and bored. Santana rolls my eyes; he really needs to give it up. Santana knows that Rachel hasn’t gotten any since Brody moved out and she’s sure that Rachel’s needs would love to be met by pretty much any half-decent man, but she doesn’t seem to be buying into Finn’s advances.

“Get lost, Hudson. The girl isn’t interested in catching whatever germs you’re carrying in that trap.” She gestures up at his face, her nose wrinkling at the thought of kissing Finn. If she had to rank all of the people she’s made out with in her lifetime, he would easily rank in the bottom three.

“This is a private conversation, Santana,” he complains, not dropping his contact with Rachel.

“I need to go to sleep, Finn,” Rachel says gently, looking gratefully towards Santana. Finn huffs, but moves away, realizing that, once again, he has no chance of getting his way.

“I think Quinn is pissed I’m sharing a bed with Brittany,” Santana blurts out, keeping her voice low enough that she won’t be overheard.

“What’s going on with you and Quinn anyway?” Rachel asks curiously. Santana just shrugs.

“I told her that I’m in love with her yesterday and she hasn’t really responded yet,” Santana admits. Just saying it aloud makes her chest constrict uncomfortably. Rachel pats her arm sympathetically. 

“That’s quite the bomb to drop if she wasn’t expecting it. Give her a little time to work through how that makes her feel,” Rachel suggests. “You’re not planning on doing anything with Britt though, right?”

“Of course not!” Santana responds incredulously. “She has a girlfriend and Britt and I have been over for a long time.”

“Okay, okay,” Rachel soothes. “It was just a question. You’re just sharing a bed. If you think it’s that big of a deal to Quinn, talk to her about it at some point.”

Rachel hugs her and pats her back softly for a moment before she lets go. It’s so simple, but Santana is reminded that Rachel really has become her best friend since she moved to New York.

“Thanks, Rach,” Santana says quietly. Rachel reaches forward and pushes a lock of hair out of Santana’s face like it’s second nature. Santana wants to laugh at the fact that a few months ago, Rachel was still announcing every time she was about to initiate physical contact.

“Get some sleep,” Rachel replies and she steps away with a small smile. Santana pours herself a glass of water and carries it towards her bed. The curtain around Kurt’s area is already pulled closed and Mercedes and Quinn have disappeared from the group.

Brittany is still waiting on her bed when Santana finally reaches her space and puts the water on the nightstand before pulling the curtain closed, separating them from the rest of the apartment. Santana rifles through her drawers for appropriate pajamas, and even though it’s the middle of summer, she chooses a pair of pants. Knowing Britt, there will be cuddling whether or not Santana wants it. The last thing she needs is to feel Brittany’s silky legs against her bare skin. At least this way there’s a layer between them.

She strips quickly and pulls the t-shirt and pants on. She unhooks her bra under the shirt and pulls it out of the arm of her shirt. Brittany looks curious - they’ve seen each other naked hundreds of times - but doesn’t question Santana. After all these years, Brittany knows to not push Santana when it’s obvious that she doesn’t want to talk about feelings.

Santana crawls into bed next to Brittany, who has moved beneath the comforter. She flips the switch for the light on the nightstand and takes a gulp of her water before she settles back against the pillows.

Brittany immediately moves into her. Santana allows her - old habits die hard, she figures - and she lifts her arm so that Brittany’s head finds its way into the crook of her shoulder comfortably. They lay in silence for a while, neither of them succumbing to sleep.

“Are you happy here, San?” Brittany asks, her voice slightly raspy from a night of drinking vodka.

Santana doesn’t really have to debate the question like she would have in the weeks following the move. New York is home now; she has a great group of friends, a job she enjoys, and a career path in mind that would have never happened if she had stayed in Lima or suffered through four years at Louisville.

“I am,” she responds honestly, unable to control the small hint of a smile ghosting on her lips.

“You’re in love with her, aren’t you?” It’s really more of a statement than an actual question. 

Santana’s muscles go rigid. Was her tension with Quinn that palpable? Though Britt has always been more in tune with her emotions than Santana would ever like to admit.

“Who are you even talking about?” Santana deflects, wishing desperately that Brittany’s head wasn’t on her shoulder so she could roll away.

“You looked so happy with her at the wedding,” Brittany states casually. “But now you both seem kind of sad.”

The wedding had started horribly with having to see Brittany hanging on Sam’s arm like they were the real life Barbie and Ken. The reception turned out way better than she could have ever imagined, however, with the way Quinn was flirting. When they danced, wrapped up in one another’s arms, it felt like they were something special.

The weeks following are what stole away that short night of bliss. Brittany wasn’t around to witness those. There were nights where she felt like Quinn didn’t even care if they were in one another’s lives. Yet the other nights - the ones spent on the phone with Quinn until way beyond a reasonable hour - were some of the best of her life.

“We just have a lot to figure out, B,” Santana responds. 

She doesn’t want to get into it all with her ex-girlfriend. Brittany has always loved her, completely unconditionally, and she doesn’t deserve to hear that part of Santana believes that Brittany was just the easy choice. They didn’t have to talk about feelings or try and determine what the future might hold.

The difference is that with Quinn, Santana can’t help but think about the future. With Brittany, a future together always seemed so distant - they both had very little direction for what they wanted after high school and planning ahead just didn’t make any sense. Quinn makes her want to intertwine their dreams in a way she never felt compelled to do with Brittany. Part of her figures this is because Brittany always had the possibility of disappearing with a strong wind; she wasn’t the kind of person that would be happy being tied down to one place for too long.

“Both of you think too much,” Brittany states simply. “If you love her, you shouldn’t hide from that. Quinn has trouble believing that she’s loved though and you really have to show her lots of times before she’ll start to see it.”

Deep down, Santana knows that Brittany is absolutely right. Confessing her love to Quinn isn’t enough. Words can only cover so much. Why can’t Quinn see the way she looks at her and believe that she means it in the deeper part of her heart? What could she possibly do to make Quinn realize that she craves the chance to have the real thing with her: the sappy romance with the sweet, slow kisses and holding hands while they walk, the late breakfasts on Sunday because they’d rather stay in bed and just talk for hours. Santana would give Quinn the world if only Quinn would give her a chance to really show her what she means to Santana.

“Maybe,” Santana says quietly. The apartment is completely dark now and she can hear Puck snoring in the living room.

“Don’t let go of your chance to be really happy.” Brittany always proves that she’s smarter than anybody gives her credit for. Genius or not, she gets people in a way nobody else does.

Brittany falls asleep shortly after and rolls onto her side of the bed. Santana is relieved to have a little bit of personal space again and she pulls the comforter up to her chin. Her chest actually aches with how much she wishes it was Quinn lying next to her, her wispy breaths easing Santana to sleep.

Someday, Santana tells herself. For tonight, her old friend was going to have to do.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With school and work starting back up in the very near future, this might be the last chapter for a little bit. I’m going to try my best to update when I can, especially because we’re pretty close to the end at this point. Thanks to my lovely beta, quasi-suspect, for the taking the time to look at this (even though she should be doing her schoolwork instead).

Having everybody in the tiny apartment makes Santana feel claustrophobic. Despite how much she cares about them - these are her lifelong friends after all - she’s glad when they are hugging goodbye and all heading their separate ways.

Mercedes and Brittany insist that they don’t need her to escort them to the airport, but she walks with them to the subway anyway on Sunday morning. The Lima crew has left already - the drive is a long, tiring one and most of them have to work tomorrow - and Quinn is meeting a friend from Yale for brunch since she isn’t heading out until later.

Santana hugs Mercedes and they both promise to keep in touch better than they have been.

“Can I have a minute with Santana alone?” Brittany asks her and Mercedes nods, heading for the stairs down to the subway platform.

“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself,” Brittany demands, crossing her arms over her chest. “And that means showing Quinn how capable you are of loving her completely. You’re not as emotionless as you like to pretend, Santana.”

Santana just shrugs. It’s not like Brittany needs any sort of indication to know that she is right. Brittany accepts it and pulls Santana into a hug. They stand there, wrapped up in one another’s arms on a street corner in Brooklyn.

The whole world has changed since Santana left Lima without Brittany. Change had been Santana’s biggest fear - especially with Brittany not graduating - and this past year had been nothing but change. There is slight comfort in the fact that Brittany still smelled the same. She still does the thing where she slouches down to Santana’s height so that she can rest her chin on Santana’s shoulder as they embrace. It is only a tiny taste of familiarity in the ever-changing world.

There’s no big ordeal over goodbyes. Brittany breaks apart from her and hikes her bag up onto her shoulder. With a little wave, she disappears down the steps, leaving Santana standing alone on the street. 

Santana takes her time walking back to the apartment. For the first time in days, she’s finally alone with her thoughts. Since Kurt had to go into work early this morning - Isabelle is working him twice as hard now that she is paying him a decent salary - she stops at the little delicatessen and orders a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich with a large coffee. 

When she gets back to the apartment, she climbs through the window of the living room out onto the fire escape and leans back against the building as she unwraps her sandwich from the aluminum foil. She hasn’t gotten used to the grime of living in a city yet. It seems like every inch is always covered in a layer of dirt that is impossible to scrub away.

Somehow, even with the gray haze that covers everything around her, Santana has come to appreciate the beauty in the little things that she couldn’t find anywhere else. The rolling, grassy lawns of the houses in Lima are completely absent, replaced with cracked cement. There are no cornfields to drive past, telling her she’s at the city limits. New York is unlike anything she’s ever known, especially after having been locked in Ohio for the majority of her first eighteen years.

At home in Lima, Sunday mornings meant having her parents home for once. Her dad would fry a few eggs and would make little sandwiches on English muffins for them. He would read the paper at the table and she’d eat as quietly as possible so as not to disturb him and run the risk of being forced to eat in the kitchen instead.

She used to love watching his eyes dart along the paper. He would sigh as he read about the politics and the stock market, a line creasing the middle of his forehead. Everything about the ritual seemed so important. She’d wait patiently for him to flip through until he got to the comics, which he would always push towards her when he started reading the sports section.

Sure, it wasn’t really quality time with her incredibly busy father. Even while they ate in silence, the only sound being the rustling of those ink-stained pages, there was a camaraderie between them that this was their little special routine together.

Her mother would walk in with the coffee pot to refill his mug and kiss him on the temple. He would get this little half smile and lean into her touch when she ran her fingers through his short hair. There was nothing fancy about it, but it was one of the few instances that Santana got to see how happy her parents were together.

The fire escape is lonely. She doesn’t know the last time she had a real breakfast with anybody she cared about. Honestly, it was probably with Leigh on one of their lazy mornings, but she never took the time to acknowledge those special moments with someone who was just supposed to be a friend.

Rachel doesn’t eat most breakfast food - there’s something unappealing about trying to make an egg sandwich when you don’t eat real eggs - and Kurt is usually working or with Adam during breakfast hours. She wants what her parents have, even if it’s as simple as a quiet morning.

Quinn is out with someone from Yale. For all Santana knows, it could be someone that’s more than a friend. Brunch seems to be much more of a date activity than simply a friendly meal.

Though, as usual, she’s probably over-analyzing things that don’t really matter. Quinn is free to do as she pleases, even if that means that Santana is spending her Sunday morning alone on a dirty Brooklyn fire escape.

Santana can imagine what spending her Sunday mornings with Quinn would be like. Quinn would probably whine about the calories in an egg sandwich, but she’d be leaning over to steal an extra slice of bacon from Santana’s plate anyway. Her nose would be stuck in a book or she’d read over a new script as she studies for an audition. Santana would probably complain that she’s being ignored and Quinn would roll her eyes before marking her page and letting Santana climb onto her lap. There would be long, playful kisses before Quinn would remind her that she has work to do and Santana would be forced to move with a groan. She’d be content to sit with her coffee mug and watch Quinn in her element, knowing that as soon as the book is closed, Quinn would be cuddling up against her on the couch.

A car honks at a teenager jaywalking on the street below and Santana is pulled from her thoughts. Part of her feels ridiculous that she’s even wasting her time thinking about such things considering Quinn couldn’t even respond to her. They are living in limbo; it is a place where they aren’t really anything. At this point, Santana isn’t even sure if she can even call Quinn her friend.

With a sigh, she finishes off her sandwich and crumples the aluminum foil in her fist, squeezing it into a tight ball. Her urge is to throw it at the kit of pigeons sitting on the gutter across the street. Somehow, Rachel’s environmentally conscious voice starts yammering in her head ranting about the ramifications of littering. Instead, she drops it back into the paper bag, though it’s not as satisfying. A good throw would feel relieving, like she was getting rid of even a tiny bit of the emotion built up in her chest.

She knows the only way is to follow Brittany’s advice and prove to Quinn how much she really loves her. And Santana wants to do it - even though she knows practically nothing about romance - but Quinn’s lack of response the other night is still at the forefront of her thoughts. Her pride is sitting at Quinn’s feet as it is; putting everything on the line to make a bigger fool of herself when she really has no idea if Quinn is even remotely on the same page just feels impossible.

Santana figures she should climb back into the apartment and deal with the mess that has accumulated all weekend from their guests. She allows herself to have another long moment on the fire escape before she stands up and brushes off the back of her shorts. When she turns to climb back through the window, she notices that Quinn has returned.

The blonde is walking through the apartment with the cleaning supplies in tow. She stops to wipe down the coffee table. Santana waits until she walks back towards the kitchen with an armful of half-empty glasses before she darts through the window.

Quinn nearly jumps out of her skin when she notices Santana standing in the living room.

“Where the hell did you come from?” Quinn asks, her hand resting over her presumably pounding heart.

Santana gestures to the window with a shrug. She walks past Quinn to throw the remains of her lonely breakfast away and grabs an extra rag to help Quinn clean before she returns to the living room.

Cleaning is definitely not her thing - usually she just makes sure to wash her dishes and not leave her belongings strewn through common areas as her contribution - so she just looks around aimlessly for a minute, trying to figure out what she should work on.

Quinn, on the other hand, is moving with purpose from one surface to another, leaving them gleaming in her wake.

“Can I help?” Santana inquires, holding up her rag to show that she’s prepared for her task.

Quinn chuckles and rolls her eyes; she knows that Santana grew up with a housekeeper and probably has never lifted a finger in the war on dirt before in her life.

“Do you know how to work the vacuum?” Quinn asks. Santana shrugs her shoulders.

“It can’t be that hard though, right? I just need to push it around.”

Quinn walks out of sight and returns with the vacuum. She hands Santana the cord and gestures at the outlet next to the entertainment stand. Santana plugs it in and walks over to where Quinn is standing with it.

“Here’s the power button. That one unlocks it so that it’s not standing upright. This adjusts the handle height. Near corners and under the edges of the furniture you’re probably going to want to use one of the attachments.” Quinn is pointing at all the different parts and acting like it should be common sense. Who knew that modern-day vacuums have more controls than a time machine?

She waits until Quinn returns to clearing the end tables before she attempts to turn it on. It roars to life and it takes her another minute to remember which switch releases the handle so that she can push it around. 

Once she figures that out, she pushes it slowly and listens as it sucks up all the crumbs on the rug. It only takes a few pushes and pulls for her to figure out the most effective rhythm, but as soon as she does, the main part of the living room is done, but she still needs to tackle under the furniture.

Quinn takes pity on her as Santana tries to figure out the array of attachments stuck to the side of the vacuum. She walks over and unhooks the hose like it’s second nature and hands it to Santana.

Santana works her way through the rest of the room and she can feel the sweat soaking through her shirt by the time she hits the power button again. Quinn has managed to make the place look cleaner than it ever has before. Apparently Kurt and Rachel aren’t inclined to housekeeping tasks in the way that Quinn is either.

“Would you prefer the kitchen or the bathroom?” Quinn asks, holding out a pair of elbow-length rubber gloves.

“I have no idea what to do in either room,” Santana admits, pulling the hideous gloves up over her manicured nails.

“I guess we could tackle them together,” Quinn suggests, tugging on her own pair of gloves. “You have to learn sometime.”

Santana nods and lets Quinn lead the way into the kitchen. She follows Quinn’s orders and before long the two of them have every surface shining. Cleaning is definitely not something she enjoys, but it’s nice to be in Quinn’s presence without it being a big ordeal. They work mostly in silence, save for Quinn telling Santana how to do basic household chores, which is fine by Santana. It’s easier without exchanging meaningless conversation.

Before they head to the bathroom to tackle the last of the cleaning, she throws her iPod onto Rachel’s dock and cranks up the volume. She can hardly hear Quinn’s instructions over Lady Gaga blasting through the apartment, but it’s completely worth it when she catches Quinn’s hips moving to the beat as she scrubs down the bathtub. 

Santana struggles to focus on her own task at the sight of Quinn with her hair falling into her eyes and pink floral gloves pulled up her arms as she dances. It’s a moment that only Santana gets to experience - she doubts Quinn would let herself look like this in front of the majority of people in her life - and she feels warm that Quinn is comfortable enough to let loose in front of her.

Santana can’t resist the urge to sing at the top of her lungs into the handle of the toilet brush with an exuberance that she only saves for her own private moments. Quinn turns and Santana watches as her head falls back in laughter when Santana gets theatrical, offering her own little choreography to the chorus.

Quinn crosses the distance between the tub and the toilet in one swift motion. Santana is still mid-note when she feels Quinn’s lips against the corner of her mouth. Her body freezes, causing Quinn’s lips to pause against her skin, the spot burning from the contact.

It’s definitely all instinct and no thought when Santana turns her head and lets Quinn’s lips collide with hers fully. The tension between them that has been ever present since Santana’s confession manages to melt away like snow hitting a sidewalk in August. There’s no hesitation at all when Quinn’s tongue teases along her bottom lip. She opens her mouth just enough to take Quinn’s lip between her teeth and pulls. Quinn moans against her and Santana feels the vibration of it burn through every inch of her body.

The intensity of it scares Santana and she stumbles backwards, putting enough space between her and Quinn that she feels like she can breathe again.

“I’m so sorry,” Quinn mumbles, her eyes darting around to look at anything but Santana standing in front of her.

“I told you that I can’t handle being casual. I poured my heart out to you like an idiot the other night and you couldn’t even respond to me. I don’t know what you’re playing at with catching me off-guard like this repeatedly, but we’re not doing this anymore.”

Her arms fold over her chest like they can somehow shield her from the pain that’s building there. Quinn looks defeated and sad, though Santana can’t figure out why for the life of her.

“Santana, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have -”

“No, you shouldn’t have kissed me. You shouldn’t be constantly putting me through this push and pull. And really, I think it’s time for you to leave.”

Quinn stands there for a long, tense moment before she yanks the rubber gloves down her arms and drops them into the bucket at her feet. She skirts around Santana and heads out of the bathroom. Santana lets herself sit on the floor, her back leaning against the end of the bathtub, her head in her hands.

It had felt so right, having Quinn that close to her again, if only for a few short minutes. Months ago she would have been grateful for just that tiny part of Quinn - the part that couldn’t wait to have her mouth back on Santana’s. Now it burns passionately and stings horribly every time she gets a tiny window beneath Quinn’s hard exterior.

She never gets to see the whole picture. Quinn isn’t vulnerable and forthcoming about whatever it is that she is feeling. All it does is drive them apart repeatedly despite the fact that all Santana wants is them to fall into one another instead.

Her ass is numb from sitting on the hard floor, but she refuses to move until she hears Quinn’s footsteps walk to the front door. The door slides open and shuts again with a resounding thud.

Quinn is gone. Santana knows that this is Quinn’s way of trying to respect Santana’s wishes, despite the fact that the boundaries were already grossly overstepped. It kills her that despite sending her away, all she wants is Quinn back in this bathroom wearing those ridiculously stupid gloves as she cleans.

~!~!~!~

It takes exactly five days for Santana to hear from Quinn after the abrupt departure.

Santana notices the envelope addressed to her sitting on the coffee table when she settles in to eat her late-morning breakfast on Friday. Kurt or Rachel must have gotten the mail the night before and left it for her to find. She picks it up to examine.

The handwriting on the envelope is unmistakable - Quinn always did have a distinctive flourish with a pen. Plus, the New Haven return address gives her away pretty quickly.

Santana drops the envelope back onto the table without opening it. Her eyes stay trained on it as she takes a few bites from her cereal. 

It’s almost like the standard white envelope is taunting her. Given the time frame, Quinn had to have sent it very shortly after her return to New Haven.

But why snail mail when she could have sent a text or an e-mail and have gotten her pleas for forgiveness in front of Santana within minutes? The whole scenario completely baffles Santana.

She manages to wait until the only thing left in her bowl is milk to pick up the letter again. The bowl gets left carelessly on the table as she turns the envelope over.

Her hands are shaking and her heart rate is way faster than it should be for a body at rest. The physiological response she’s having to a rectangular piece of paper makes her scoff at herself.

There has to be a reason that Quinn felt the need to mail it to her instead. Santana can’t figure out from the outside of the envelope if it’s a good reason or a bad reason. The only way to find out is to muster up the strength to tear it open.

Like ripping off a band-aid, she pulls it open quickly and extracts the sheets of paper from inside. They are folded perfectly into three parts and she flattens them out with her palm and lays them in her lap. She takes a deep breath, inhaling through her mouth and letting it out slowly through her nose. It does nothing to calm her nerves.

She wipes her sweaty palms on her shirt and picks up the letter again. It’s handwritten in Quinn’s loopy scrawl. In places the ink is slightly smudged, like she was writing too fast to allow time for it to dry before her hand was moving over it again.

Dear Santana,

I don’t know why, but I’m much better at taking the time to sit on my emotions and write about them than I am at dealing with them in the moment. You’re usually so closed off, but over the past few months you’ve been willing to bare it all to tell me how you feel. You deserve the same from me and I haven’t been able to do it.  
There’s something about looking at you that steals all of my words. I don’t know what it is because as soon as I was on the train back to New Haven with tears running down my face, I knew exactly what I wanted to say to you. You overwhelm me, you intimidate me, you push me completely out of my comfort zone. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get to hear my responses to your vulnerable honesty. You deserve answers for all the times that I didn’t tell you what you needed to hear.  
I needed the time after the wedding and my first visit to figure out everything that was going on inside of me. The distance from you was self-preservation because I knew I needed to take care of my own confusion before I could even be a remotely decent friend to you. You didn’t deserve to be ignored. It was nothing that you did. I should have at least offered you an explanation before you felt the need to take the measure to show up in Connecticut.  
I was so overwhelmed to see you in New Haven. I don’t take surprises well in the first place, but you were something I was trying to avoid until I felt ready to address everything in a way you deserved. It caused my walls to go up. I said things that I shouldn’t have, things that I didn’t even believe to be true. The hotel room incident was more than just two lonely friends finding one another.   
It wasn’t the first night that I had noticed how incredibly beautiful you are. It wasn’t the first time I realized that I enjoyed your company more than any of the guys I had dated. It was just the first time that I was willing to let those other things mean something more.  
I don’t remember what I said when I came to New York. When you came to surprise me, you mentioned that I said something about not being able to stop thinking about that night at the wedding. That was the truth. I think about it all the time. I think about how much it changed my life - mostly for the better. It was the gateway for me learning to deal with not being what my parents expect me to be. For once in my life, I had done something because I wanted to, rather than because it would please someone else. I wanted you that night from the minute you sat in that pew with me.  
To be honest, I have no idea where we stand or what I feel. I’ve been trying to figure all of that out for months and I’ve gotten nowhere. I know that I love you. I know that I haven’t deserved any of your patience. I know that I definitely don’t deserve to have such a wonderful, caring person in love with me.  
I’ve never been in love, Santana. I haven’t had what you experienced with Brittany. But you say that you’ve loved me for years - which overlaps that relationship. There is so much we haven’t talked about, so many things we haven’t dealt with. I want to face them, I want to clear the air between us so that maybe I can figure out what it is I feel.  
I’m sorry that right now I can’t give you a big confession of love. It’s not because I don’t feel anything for you - because I do. Sometimes it’s more intense than I know how to handle. For now, I’m doing a lot of thinking and organizing of my thoughts. I feel like I’ve been missing crucial signs from you that this was more than a simple hookup from the moment my hand brushed your shoulder at the wedding reception. Now I know it’s even longer than that.  
I want to know you - all of you. And you deserve to get to see all of me. I’m sorry that I couldn’t do it in person. My thoughts and emotions come from a scary place sometimes and I’m scared that you won’t like what you see if I let you in. But I want to try. This letter is just the first step and I hope you’re willing to give me your last ounce of patience to try and work through this together. God knows I don’t deserve any of it, but I know that if we can somehow figure this out that we could both get to experience something magical.  
So this letter is my promise that I’m devoted to you, even if I don’t know that I’m in love with you yet. I care about you in a way that I never have with someone else. That has to mean something, right? You’re special. You affect me in ways I never even knew were possible. You make me want to be someone that you can count on for the rest of our lives. I hope you’re willing to give me one last chance.

Quinn

Santana isn’t even aware of the tears running down her cheeks as she stares at Quinn’s last paragraph. There are so many thoughts, so many things that she’d been desperate to hear all laid out on two pages of looseleaf paper. It didn’t cover everything - and Quinn knows that too - but it is a start. It is something that makes her think that maybe there is something real here. And maybe, just maybe, Quinn feels it too.


	15. Chapter 15

Santana wants to immediately text Quinn after she reads through the letter a second time. She doesn’t even know what she will say - there are too many thoughts running through her mind.

This isn’t something that she thinks she should face on her own. Instead of messaging Quinn, she sends an S.O.S. message to Kurt, demanding that he comes home on his lunch break today.

He manages to walk into the loft exactly fifty-one minutes later, even though Santana knows he never takes lunch until mid-afternoon (if he eats at all).

“What’s the big emergency?” he inquires, trying to catch his breath. Santana is pretty sure that he just ran up the stairs to get here as quickly as possible.

She pushes Quinn’s letter across the surface of the table and he eyes her up before he reaches out and picks it up. Santana watches as his eyes move back and forth over the first page. Part of her feels like her own soul is exposed within Quinn’s words and she bites down on her lip as he flips to the second page.

“Well?” she asks as he lowers the sheets of paper back onto the table. She gathers them up and folds them along the crease lines so that the words are hidden from view again.

“You made me rush home from work over Quinn writing you a love letter?” Kurt responds incredulously. “Santana, I have a real job. It took my whole lunch break just to get back here. I had to beg Isabelle to work from home for the rest of the day just so that I could read that.”

Santana is a little ashamed that she made it sound like a really serious emergency, but the urge to call Quinn and gush over the letter is too strong to have handled a whole afternoon alone.

“What do I do?” Santana wonders aloud, ignoring Kurt’s crankiness over his day being interrupted with something he deems inappropriate.

“You do the same crap that you and Quinn have been doing for months. Only this time you actually talk about it when the need arises,” he responds, sounding exasperated. Kurt wanders out of the room and returns with his laptop, which he promptly sets up on the dining room table across from her.

“Do I call her? Is a text or e-mail too informal? Am I supposed to respond to what she said at all?” All of the questions that Santana has been dwelling on since she read through the letter for the first time come flying out like word vomit.

Kurt sighs deeply and closes the lid of his laptop again. “Santana, I can’t tell you how to fix everything. But maybe you should try this romantic, level-headed approach that Quinn is implementing.”

“So...I just write her a letter back?” With all of the technology available at her fingertips, Santana can’t believe that she’s being told to handwrite a bunch of mushy crap and then venture off to find a post office so that she can pay to send the stupid envelope that will take at least two days to get to Quinn. The whole process seems counterproductive.

“God, you lesbians have no sense of romance. Judging by what Quinn’s letter says, you’ve already spewed all of your love to her. How hard is it to reinforce that by putting a little time into the process instead of using 140 characters or less?”

“I just don’t want to fuck this up,” Santana admits and Kurt’s features soften very slightly. “This is my last chance before she gives up on me. I need it to be perfect.”

“Well, maybe there’s a little piece of Santana Lopez that believes in the power of romantic gestures,” Kurt replies. “Just write about how her letter made you feel. Let her continue to see past your tough exterior. And spray the paper with your perfume. Olfactory stimulation is an easy way to get her thinking about you.”

Kurt shoos her away so that he can get back to his work. Santana stops by Rachel’s room and steals a few sheets of loose-leaf paper from Rachel’s desk - her only other choice is fancy stationery that has gold stars superimposed on the background.

Santana grabs a book from the shelf in the living room to use as a writing surface as she lies down on her stomach across her bed to respond to Quinn’s letter.

The words don’t come spewing out as soon as she tries to put pen to paper. She taps her pen impatiently against the lined paper, urging her brain and heart to work together and just pour out everything that she’s been feeling.

What is left for her to tell Quinn that she hasn’t already blurted out at some point?

Rolling over, she reaches for her iPod on the nightstand and sticks the buds into her ears as she hits play.

And maybe, I’m just a little too crazy,  
I just don’t know what to say,  
I just don’t know what to do.  
I think that I’m just a fool,  
I think I’m falling in love with you.

It’s a band she would have never discovered on her own. Adam had been listening to the song one afternoon as he did schoolwork in their living room. She discreetly used her song discovery app on her phone to get the title - there’s no way she’d admit to Adam or Kurt that she appreciated their taste in music.

Santana hates that songs that technically have no tie to Quinn still make her think of the blonde. She swipes her finger along the screen, scrolling through her song collection. 

So many of the titles on the screen bring back flashbacks of her lying on Brittany’s bed as Brittany painted Quinn’s toenails. Santana would flip through a magazine lazily while Brittany’s computer played their latest Pandora station.

There were so many impromptu sing-alongs in that room. Brittany would always start them; she would jump to her feet to crank up the volume on the computer speakers. Within seconds she’d be yanking Quinn to her feet, not worrying about messing up her freshly painted nails. Quinn would be singing by the time the chorus hit and they’d both hold out their hands to coerce Santana to leave her spot on the bed. With a roll of her eyes and heavily feigned reluctance, she’d allow them to pull her from the bed until they were all belting out the words and dancing around in their pajamas.

Brittany lived for Top-40 hits, but Quinn had a soft spot for more eclectic songs that Santana only knew from the hours of Quinn playing them on repeat while they shared earbuds during long bus rides for Cheerio and Glee competitions. Her friends’ songs had slowly found their way into her own music collection.

Quinn had integrated the majority of Santana’s life at this point. Pretty much everything in Santana’s life held a memory of her. 

Santana presses play. She knows what she can write about.

Q-

Romance isn’t my thing. I’ve never been one to think about buying flowers for the hell of it. My idea of date night is paying for the takeout, while you’ve spent nineteen years looking for Prince Charming to come and sweep you into a world of romantic bliss.

I’m not that person. I doubt that I’ll ever be that person.

I’m more than that person. I’m the girl that helped you lie to your mom when we broke her favorite vase playing keep-away with Puck’s lucky hat the first time you threw a party. I’m the girl that held your hair back the first time we got drunk at a Cheerio sleepover and you puked for three hours in Kayla’s bathroom. I was the person holding your hand while we waited to hear that we won a national cheerleading championship. I’m the girl that lost prom queen to you by one vote and watched you selflessly hand it over to Rachel anyway. I’m the one that has always pushed you harder and farther than anybody else. I challenge you in the best of ways. I’m the girl that learns from her mistakes. I’m the girl that wants to be good enough for you.

I’m willing to wait. I’m willing to do what it takes. And most of all, I’m your friend first.

-S

She almost forgets Kurt’s advice, but right before she stuffs the letter into an envelope, she grabs her perfume from her dresser and gives the paper a quick spray. If nothing else, Quinn will have a tiny reminder of what she could have if Santana is in her arms.

Kurt is typing away furiously when Santana emerges with the sealed envelope stuffed in her purse. He pauses to turn and look at her as she puts her shoes on.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“Any idea where the closest post office is?” she replies.

“Did you write a letter? What does it say? Let me see it!” Kurt is on her feet before she has a chance to respond.

“It’s already sealed. I need to go to a post office. How much does a stamp cost these days anyway?”

“Santana, what did you write?” Kurt asks impatiently, eying her bag like he’s wondering if he can still get his hands on the letter. She pulls it into her, keeping her elbow locked over it.

“I’m not showing you, Gossip Queen.”

“I already saw Quinn’s though!” he whines.

“You caught me during a moment of weakness. Figure out your own relationship problems and maybe you won’t have to live vicariously through Quinn and I.”

“Because you two are the stable couple in this group that we should all aspire to be?” Kurt snorts.

“Oh, fuck you. Do you know where the post office is or not?”

“No freaking clue. Just Google it,” he tells her, heading back to his makeshift work station.

Her phone’s GPS system tells her that there’s one only four blocks away and she follows the little blinking dot on the screen.

There’s only one person in front of her in line and it’s mere minutes before the person behind the desk is asking what they can do for her. In a spontaneous decision, she buys a sheet of stamps in addition to one for her letter. 

Knowing Quinn, this letter thing might become a habit.

~!~!~!~

When Friday rolls around again, Santana finds another letter sitting on the coffee table waiting for her. This one is accompanied with a yellow post-it note from Kurt.

I swear, if you call me at work with an emergency I am not going to get you the Gucci sunglasses that you were eying up in my office.

The threat is enough to keep her from texting him, no matter what Quinn writes in this letter. Those Gucci sunglasses were made with her in mind and nobody can convince her otherwise.

She’s much calmer this time, even though whatever is in the letter is a complete mystery. The only contact that she and Quinn have shared are these letters. No matter how many times Santana’s fingers have itched to text Quinn, she’s refrained.

There’s something nice about tossing out technology and doing this old school. If nothing else, she has to admit that it is a little bit romantic. She gets to hold something in her hand that Quinn put her time and effort into. And by the feel of it, this letter is even bigger than the last one.

Without any buildup, she tears open the envelope and extracts the paper neatly folded inside.

Dear Santana,

I don’t know what I expect to come from hiding behind my pen and words scribbled on paper. I know that with a push of a button we could be looking at one another over a computer screen. That scares me - that you’re so far from me yet so incredibly close. It makes the world feel small, yet infinitely large simultaneously.

You deserve to know what I’ve been thinking about - starting with before the wedding. I’m going to try to give that to you. It might be stilted and confusing at times; I’m still trying to figure it all out myself, but I’m going to do my best.

Yale didn’t start out like I planned at all. It was bad enough not being able to command the respect of my peers with a Cheerio uniform. I felt like my fat, ugly, middle school self all over again. I was homesick for a place that I couldn’t wait to get out of mere months earlier.

I don’t really know how things with the professor started. Psychology was an elective class that I figured I’d have no interest in, but I actually loved it. Colin was obviously intelligent and he responded to me in class like what I was saying actually mattered. For once, someone wanted to hear my thoughts. He told me to stop by his office hours to discuss the topic in more in depth. I went, and the spiral began.

Like always, you were the only one willing to call me out. To be honest, I think part of me wanted your attention, even if it was negative. I wanted someone to notice that everything wasn’t perfect in my little Ivy League universe. Everybody else in Lima ate up my fake smile and complimented my new hairstyle.

But you - Santana, you saw right through my facade. Sure, we didn’t hug and confide in one another. I don’t even know if that’s what I needed. If nothing else, your method worked. Your words haunted my every thought whenever I was with Colin after Thanksgiving. Before the slapfest over the piano, I knew that it wasn’t healthy. I knew that I was never going to get what I needed from Colin, but it was hard to let go of how he made me feel. For months, he had felt like the only person who truly cared about me (even though he probably didn’t).

You walked into that choir room with such a purpose. Marley was practically a stranger, but you immediately showed how much you cared about her well-being. Even amongst your harsh words, that caring side of you seeped out. 

You’ve never been one to shy away from the jugular. Beth is my weakest spot and you know that. I know that you didn’t bring her up because you were only looking to be cruel.

Not only did you push me to deal with everything with Colin, but I went to see Shelby and Beth right after I left the high school that afternoon. They live in Columbus now. I drove the two hours by myself in complete silence, your words echoing through my head.

Maybe it’s not conventional that we communicate through low blows. We speak the unspeakable. We push each other completely off of the precipice. 

I appreciate that about our relationship - that we don’t feel the need to sugarcoat things to protect the other person’s feelings. I trust that you’re always going to be brutally honest with me, even if it hurts and is the last thing that I want to deal with. I need that in my life - someone that is going to tell me the things I need to hear.

I wasn’t planning for this to be so long-winded. But I promised to try and let you in and that can only happen if I let you see things from where I’m standing. I hope you’re willing to hang onto this thread that remains between us. 

Until next week,

Quinn

Santana isn’t expecting the tears that burn at the corners of her eyes. The idea of Quinn driving all the way to Columbus, alone, hurts more than it should. 

The images of Quinn showing up to school with a new, black wardrobe and bright pink hair find their way to the forefront of her mind. Quinn is strong in ways Santana can never imagine being. Still, she should have had someone there when she needed them. Santana wishes that she had been that person in the past.

She grabs a few sheets of paper and sits down at the dining room table. The words come spilling out this time without hesitation, her hand flying across the page. This writing thing makes her mind and heart connect in a way they haven’t been able to do for months. The urge to tell Quinn every little detail of her regrets from high school is strong as she writes.

But there is a lifetime for that if she plays her cards right. If it takes her whole lifetime to make Quinn realize how much she wishes she had been the person that Quinn needed during that time, then she will do it.

Santana doesn’t bother to re-read the letter before she’s shoving it into an envelope and scrawling Quinn’s address across the front. She sticks the stamp on the corner and heads out of the apartment to drop it in the mailbox as soon as possible.

Santana’s mood is great all day just from having the simplest contact with Quinn. It wasn’t necessarily a happy letter, but she feels like she’s getting to know Quinn in ways that she’s never been able to do before. Going to work doesn’t even put a damper on her mood and she walks into the bar whistling just in time for her shift.

“Someone’s having a good day,” Leigh comments, looking up at Santana with a smile.

Santana stops whistling to look up from her cell phone. Leigh’s smile is warm and genuine and Santana can’t help but return it. She pockets her phone and slips onto a stool in front of Leigh.

“I’m going to take one guess and say that this has something to do with Quinn,” Leigh says, tossing a rag at Santana. “Are you guys dating yet?”

Santana laughs. She has missed Leigh over these past few weeks. It’s definitely for the best that they’re not sharing a bed anymore - though Santana can’t deny that Leigh manages to look hotter every time she sees her. It’s not weird, however, to move back to being just friends.

“Not dating, no,” Santana clarifies.

“Did she send you twelve dozen roses and a pony or something? You’re smiling like a giant, mushy goof,” Leigh teases.

“It wasn’t anything big. I just feel like good things are coming,” Santana tells her, sliding off of the stool to help Leigh prep for the Friday night rush.

Leigh pauses from where she’s cutting limes as Santana rounds the corner of the bar.

“I’m glad you’re happy,” Leigh states simply and every ounce of Santana’s being believes her.

It’s the last Friday night shift before school starts and the bar is packed with students that have returned to the City for another semester. Santana flirts with the midwestern boys as she hands them beers, acting as much like a New Yorker and as little as a midwesterner herself. They don’t seem bothered either way - her cleavage is much more interesting than the words she actually speaks judging by where their eyes are.

Performing is as liberating as it always is. Leigh comes up behind her as they dance on the bar and grinds into her ass, which makes the room go wild. She plays along - it’s all in good fun anyway. Keeping the audience entertained is her job, first and foremost. And if there’s anything she’s learned from her time at Coyote Ugly, it’s that a little girl-on-girl teasing will bring the tips faster than anything else.

Leigh takes off as soon as they’re cleaned up - her girlfriend is waiting up for her. Santana teases her good-naturedly as they hug goodbye. Leigh blushes and Santana wants to tease her for that too, but she doesn’t want to hold Leigh up from getting home.

It’s not that she’s jealous of Leigh. She’s happy that her friend has found someone that makes her rush home, even when she’s sure that Leigh is exhausted. With nobody to rush for, Santana takes her time gathering her belongings and walking to the subway.

She misses Quinn. The letters are satisfying in a way that she’s never experienced before - Brittany wasn’t big on writing anything - but she misses the day-to-day contact of texting and chatting online when Quinn was supposed to be reading for class.

It was her fault that Quinn left so abruptly before they really could work out what it meant for them. Quinn has been trying connect in some way, but in the romantic nature of reading her written words, Santana is losing out on actually talking to Quinn.

Since it’s the middle of the night, she fights the urge to call Quinn. She wants to hear that raspy, exhausted voice over the line, even if Quinn will probably be pissed at being woken up in the middle of the night for no real reason. The train pulls into the station and she boards, saving herself from making a decision that she’s not sure would be a good one.

~!~!~!~

By the time next Friday arrives, Santana feels completely burnt out. School is exhausting, especially when she’s still working at the bar four nights a week. Her classes are kind of interesting, but the reading is long and tedious. The apartment is quiet and empty pretty much all of the time these days and Santana dozes off with a textbook in her lap three times in the first week.

Rachel’s schedule is even more insane because she’s refusing to take leave from NYADA, so she has two classes in the morning before she rushes to the theater for her daily performances. Santana’s path only crosses hers for about five minutes in the morning as Santana rushes out the door as Rachel starts to get ready for her classes.

Kurt is practically a ghost. Santana figures it’s partially because of the how poorly Rachel took the news of his withdrawal from NYADA, but Isabelle also seems to need him every second of the day. Santana isn’t even sure what it is that Kurt does for at his job beyond acting like Isabelle’s servant. He’s not even her assistant anymore, but judging by the crumpled dry cleaning tickets littering his desk, he’s still running her errands in his spare time.

Santana doesn’t get Quinn’s letter until dinner time because of her class schedule; it’s still sitting in the mailbox when she arrives home. She carries the stack of junk mail and bills with her as she trudges up the stairs, but her eyes are on the way Quinn’s loopy scrawl writes her name on the front of the envelope.

She drops the other mail onto the kitchen counter before taking the letter and retreating to her bedroom. She has resisted the urge all week to contact Quinn beyond the letter that she dropped into the mailbox. Most of the time she’s been too busy to even think about talking to people, but part of her also wants to share how her semester is going because, for once, she’s sort of excited about school.

Santana,

I know your semester started now and I hope you’re enjoying your classes. Hopefully it’s a million times better than your experience at Louisville was. I really think you’re making the right choice for yourself here. You’re going to do so well - I just know it.

I’m going to just continue from where my last letter left off…

It took me until the last night of finals to end things with Colin for good. Even if he was no longer in love with his wife, I knew deep down that he was never going to leave her. He cared too much about his position at the University to ever seriously consider dating a much-younger student. The three weeks between Thanksgiving break and the night I finally gained the strength to leave him for good isn’t a time period I’m particularly proud of.

I tried to prove to myself that you were wrong, that Colin did care about me at least a little bit. You haunted me every time I was in his presence. I couldn’t so much as kiss him without seeing your cocky smirk. You were right about him and about me and I hated you for that.

Christmas break was lonely and horrible. I didn’t want to see the Glee kids and have to pretend to act all cheerful and happy when really I was pretty miserable. Frannie came home to see my mom for the holidays with her perfect fiancé in tow, making my mother happier than my presence ever does. Beth was in Florida with Shelby, visiting Shelby’s parents. 

I hid out for four weeks, reading through every book on the shelf in my room before starting to going to the library every day. I started writing - just journals at first, but eventually some short stories. I learned to love the solitude as I spent hours pent up in my bedroom avoiding the world.

However, I did the complete opposite when I got back to Yale. I started putting myself out there more. I took the time to get to know some of the girls that lived on my floor. I introduced myself to classmates that I found engaging. I started eating meals with a group of people and I made real friends.

I don’t think they’ll ever feel quite like family like our high school friends do. I like them and I enjoy being around them, but it’s still you and Rachel and Mercedes that I want to run to with my happiness and my struggles. There’s something about the bond that seem irreplaceable, no matter how nice my new friends are.

Yale is a four-year experience that I’m going through. It’s not my whole life. It’s not my only defining characteristic. It’s a stepping stone on my way to bigger and better things. But it doesn’t replace the past. It doesn’t replace how much I care about our friendship. If anything, it seems like it’s just a test to prove to me that we’re meant to help each other through this phase in our life.

I haven’t been a great friend lately. I want to be better. I want to know how your classes are going and if you like your major and whether you’ve met any cool new people. I know you have Kurt and Rachel readily available, but just know that I’m here and I genuinely am interested in the little parts of your life. I know that I haven’t been reaching out beyond these letters. I don’t want to push you to talk to me if that’s not something you want. But just know that you’re welcome to call or text or even visit if you want to.

Until next week (or sooner?),  
Quinn

Santana remembers being home over the winter break. She had put in her withdrawal from Louisville the morning of her last final without telling anybody, including Brittany. Santana had been so wrapped up in her own issues: her failure at Louisville, breaking things off with Brittany, and feeling destined to be stuck in Lima alone for the rest of her life.

Seeing how Quinn’s winter vacation played out makes her think back. She spent most of her nights out with their friends - usually drinking in Puck’s basement while the guys played Call of Duty. Sometimes they’d go to a bigger social event where Santana would watch Brittany flirt her way through the football boys and cheerleaders equally. She spent most of that month miserable and alone. And apparently across town, Quinn was doing exactly the same.

She doesn’t start writing Quinn back, not right away. It’s too hard to come up with the words she wants to say. Quinn, letter after letter, is spilling her guts. Santana knows that she’s had moments of vulnerability about how she feels about Quinn, but it doesn’t seem to compare when she can re-read Quinn’s feelings over and over again.

Leaning over, she opens the drawer of her nightstand and deposits the newest letter onto the growing stack. It’s such a Rachel Berry thing to do - saving all the “love” letters from a girl she’s not actually dating. It’s embarrassing, how much Quinn Fabray has turned her into a pathetic teenager. She had managed to avoid being like this all through high school.

There are bigger things to focus on, however. School is insane and completely different from anything Santana has done before. It’s not like sitting in the back of Mr. Schue’s class tossing paper balls at Puck’s mohawk at all. Her classes are hard and she actually has to pay attention to her professors.

It’s encouraging to know that Quinn actually cares about how things are going in her classes when she has her own classes to worry about. Yale is no walk in the park and Quinn practically lives in the library in the evenings.

Santana pulls her binder out of her school bag and reads over the syllabus for her recording class again. The nice thing about her major is that she has a lot more projects and a lot less formal exams. For this class, her final project is cumulative through the whole semester. The first step is to come up with the idea. Most of her classmates are choosing to do dinky little jingles for a product, but she wants to aim higher than that. She’s going to record a song.

Maybe it’s a little out of her skill level - she had never even been in a recording studio until class today. It’s not like she needs to write in multiple instruments into an original composition or anything crazy.

She scans through the guidelines. Her voice is good enough that she wouldn’t mind presenting it to the class, but she doesn’t know how she’ll be able to work in the studio and record herself simultaneously. Plus her talents with instruments are elementary at best.

Quinn is the problem-solver. Santana has no problem doing her own work - in many regards she knows she’s probably as smart as Quinn. But where Santana is a memorizer - and that was plenty to get through classes at McKinley - Quinn actually can use what she’s learned.

The logical thing to do would be to bounce some of her ideas off of Quinn. She trusts Quinn’s judgment and knows that she won’t baby her if she thinks Santana is being too ambitious. It’s been weeks since they’ve talked and Santana really does want her help, but she feels lame calling Quinn about an assignment when they’ve been living in this fantasy, romantic universe lately.

It takes her three hours to decide that she could at least text Quinn. Kurt and his new favorite coworker - this guy Nathaniel who wears an obscene number of floral ascots - are hanging out in the living room, drinking wine and eating pad thai. Calling Quinn would mean there’s a possibility of being overheard - fuck this apartment and its lack of real walls - and Santana doesn’t want to deal with Kurt gossiping about that.

It’s another twenty minutes before she hits send and her message flutters out into cyberspace. Santana forces herself to leave the phone on her nightstand while she does her reading, but as soon as it vibrates on the wooden surface, she dives for it, nearly toppling off of her bed.

It’s good to hear from you.

Santana isn’t sure how to respond; her message was pretty much directly to the point about wanting an opinion about her assignment. Quinn seems to have other intentions: socialization first, work second.

She doesn’t want to sound like she’s just using Quinn for her intelligence. It’s not easy, being in this weird place. To be frank, she doesn’t want to know what Quinn has been doing socially as the last time she ended up leaving Yale in the midst of a fight. They aren’t exclusive. Really, they aren’t anything. Quinn can take time once a week to be cute and write heartfelt letters to Santana, but that doesn’t mean she’s not enjoying all the benefits of being away at college.

Yeah you too Q.

It’s not deep. It doesn’t scratch the surface in explaining how much she’s missed this simple contact over the past few weeks. In fact, Santana isn’t even sure that she’d be able to explain that in general, never mind in a text message.

Three more rounds of small talk texts go by before Santana can’t take it anymore and brings up her assignment again.

Any suggestions about my project?

Her outline is due next week and, knowing Quinn’s life, this is probably the only chance to catch Quinn.

Can we video chat or something to discuss?

The words stare back at Santana from the screen of her cell phone. She wants Quinn’s help, but the idea of seeing her after their last interactions causes some hesitation. The hurt etched on Quinn’s face, completely in contrast with her kiss swollen lips, is an image Santana hasn’t been able to erase.

In the end, the necessity of Quinn’s opinions outweighs Santana’s bad memories from the last visit. She rolls off the bed and retrieves her laptop. Quinn is already online and Santana initiates the video call in one hurried click.

Quinn accepts the call and Santana holds her breath while the browser buffers the connection. Before she’s fully prepared, Quinn’s face appears on her screen. Santana can’t look directly into her eyes - it’s too overwhelming - so she focuses on the little things: the curl of Quinn’s hair against her shoulders, the French poster tacked up on the stark, white wall behind Quinn’s head, the way Quinn’s cheeks are sucked in from how she’s chewing on them.

“You look great,” Quinn breathes. Santana meets her gaze for one fleeting moment before her eyes dart away again. Quinn’s looks are often soul-searching and deep, and Santana needs there to be at least some resemblance of distance between them.

“Were you really expecting anything less?” Santana retorts. It’s easier to hide behind her eye rolls and snarky remarks, especially when she knows that she actually does look really good today. Wearing something other than a cheerleading uniform to class is refreshing, and Santana takes full advantage when she’s getting ready in the mornings. Granted, Quinn can’t see anything beyond her hair and the top half of her shirt.

“You know what I meant,” Quinn replies, dishing it back with her own exaggerated eye roll.

Santana has an urge to up the level of banter. However, that runs the risk of possibly pissing Quinn off. Santana isn’t sure that their shaky foundation can handle that kind of strain right now. 

For once, she hits the brakes before she can regret what is going to come out of her mouth. It’s hard to focus on anything beyond how good Quinn looks and Santana stares down at her papers to hide the blush forming at being around Quinn again, even if it’s only through a computer.

“Why are you so against just writing a jingle like everybody else?”

It’s an innocent enough question. Santana’s sure that she could do fine in class if she just followed the rest of her peers. Just the idea of trying to write a ridiculous jingle makes her lose all motivation to put in the time to make it good.

“I’m made for way greater things than writing a song to advertise a cereal box, Q.”

“I wasn’t saying that you weren’t,” Quinn clarifies. “I just figured you’d be playing it safe to get the grade.”

Santana white-knuckles her pen in her hand and wonders if this is Quinn’s way of telling her that she’s aiming too high. It’s frustrating - she thought Quinn would at least believe in her, even if nobody else did.

“You think I can’t do it.”

“Santana, please.”

“What?” She allows herself to look up at Quinn and sees the pain starting to appear from behind Quinn’s stony expression.

“Don’t push me away. Not now. Just… please.”

Santana’s breathing gets tight at Quinn’s soft plea. In some twisted way, it’s comforting to know that Quinn is struggling with their ever-changing dynamic. At this point, Santana isn’t sure how to describe Quinn, even to herself. She figures they’re friends - at least in the way that she calls all of the glee club kids her friends, even the ones she hasn’t spoken to in months - but it seems like too simple of a label for something as complex as her feelings towards Quinn.

It’s a conversation they’re going to need to have at some point, whether or not this “friendship” starts to move other places. Santana knows it’s not healthy to be living in this constant state of confusion and anxiety that surrounds every thought she has about Quinn. She also knows that it’s not a conversation that she nor Quinn is ready to have.

“You think I should just make a stupid jingle?” Santana asks, submitting to the fact that she trusts Quinn’s own judgment more than her own. If Quinn tells her to take the easy road, she will.

“Of course not. The only way to make it in this world is to do a lot more than the bare minimum. If you’re going to be in such a hugely competitive field, you need to learn now that following the crowd is going to get you exactly nowhere.”

“Since when are you the Yoda of career decisions?” Santana jokes. The tightness in her chest loosens a fraction when Quinn cracks a smile.

“Being a theatre program drop-out will do that to you, I suppose.” She doesn’t look sad about the drama program. Santana knows that it wasn’t the right choice for Quinn - despite having the beauty that would stun anybody, Quinn never seemed fully comfortable being in a position where everybody would be looking at her and judging her every move.

“Thanks, Q,” Santana replies sheepishly.

“I think you should ask Rachel to help you with your song.”

It’s not an idea that had crossed Santana’s mind, but it makes sense. If Rachel was singing, Santana could be controlling the booth and the song would still come out phenomenal. Of course, Rachel’s schedule is insane and she could very well tell Santana that she doesn’t want to do it, but Santana already has her hopes up.

“She’s not going to want to do some stupid class project for me,” Santana tells Quinn, trying to push herself back into reality.

“You underestimate how much Rachel cares about you.”

Santana isn’t sure how to take that. It sure didn’t seem like Rachel cared about her when she was kicking her out of the apartment a few short months ago. Sure, a lot had evolved since then, but Santana still runs through her options mentally on a regular basis to remind herself that she’d be okay if she had to leave the loft again.

“She tolerates me at best.”

“That’s such a lie, Santana. When I skyped with her last week she referred to you as her best friend, even over Kurt. Rachel just kind of sucks at being a normal friend around girls.”

“It’s probably because she’s at least a little gay,” Santana blurts out. Quinn lets out a hearty chuckle and clutches at her stomach.

“You’re really something. Is this you saying that you think that Rachel has the hots for you? Because newsflash, Lopez, not everybody wants to get up on all of that.”

“Whatever. You did.”

Quinn rolls her eyes and glances down at her phone.

“Shit, I need to leave for my meeting. We’ll talk soon?” Santana can hear the hopefulness in Quinn’s voice. She guards herself, not wanting to sound too eager.

“Yeah, I’m cool with that,” she replies simply. With a little wave at the screen, she disconnects the call and falls back onto her bed with a sigh.

She can’t deny it. There’s no girl quite like Quinn Fabray.


	16. Chapter 16

“I have a proposition for you, Berry.”

Santana tries to not chuckle at the way Rachel visibly gulps, her eyes darting from the script on the table to where Kurt is standing by the fridge before she dares to look at Santana.

“What can I help you with, Santana?” Rachel asks in her ever-professional tone. Kurt stifles a snicker as he pours himself a glass of juice and heads back towards his bedroom.

As much as she loves that she still has intimidation power over Rachel, Santana sits down at the table, giving away her height advantage.

“I have this project for my recording class and I want to produce an original piece of music.”

Rachel studies Santana’s face like she’s looking for clues as to how this may involve her.

“Well, My Headband wasn’t my strongest writing endeavor, but if you’re asking me to write for you, I might be able to scroll through some of my songwriting journals and find you a suitable piece.”

She should have known that Rachel was going to think she just wanted to mooch off of her so-called brilliance. Sometimes she’s surprised that Rachel’s ego doesn’t suffocate her.

“I don’t need your song,” Santana tells her, trying to not sound condescending. It’s a challenge - she’s not used to censoring herself for anything. “I just wanted to know if you’d sing whatever I write.”

Rachel drops her chin onto the palm of her hand, contemplating the offer.

“So you don’t actually want my help. You just want to exploit my vocal chords free of charge?”

“For Christ’s sake, Berry, don’t be so melodramatic. It’s my assignment so I need it to be my own song. However, I can’t produce and record the vocals simultaneously as I hardly know what I’m fucking doing in the first place. So can you please stop being some prissy Broadway star for two minutes and be a good friend?”

“I’m still far from being a star. That takes years of dedication to the business and recognition from people outside of the Broadway circle.”

“Totally not the point here,” Santana mumbles, annoyed that she bothered to try and enlist the most self-centered person she knows. She’s sure that Kurt or one of Leigh’s NYU friends would do it for her in a heartbeat without a quarter of the grief Rachel is giving to her.

“I’d love to help you on your project. However, I must ask that this not be released to the public in any forum until I have given my permission.”

“I wasn’t about to post you singing on MySpace. I leave that for you to do. Plus, that website died like five years ago,” Santana scoffs.

“Very well, you have yourself a deal,” Rachel says, standing up and reaching her hand out to shake Santana’s like it was an actual business transaction. Santana rolls her eyes but goes with it. “My schedule is up on the household calendar, so please schedule any rehearsals or recording sessions accordingly.”

She’s not sure that she would have expected anything different from Rachel, but at least she has some sort of plan going into class today. It’s better than she could have hoped for and she knows at least a little thanks is due to Quinn for telling her to do this.

Thankfully, her professor is just as receptive to the idea of her skipping over writing a jingle and actually producing something of substance. He offers her a list of contacts to college groups that help participate in these kinds of projects all the time, but she declines as politely as possible.

“I already have my talent picked out, actually,” she says, gathering up her papers from her workstation.

“Is it someone that will be able to handle the demands? I understand that this is a beginner course, but we still expect our students to be establishing connections with people that have a chance of breaking into the industry.”

Santana tries so hard not to smirk. This dude may know that the typical freshman would need help making connections in the music industry, but Santana Lopez is anything but typical.

“Her name is Rachel Berry and she’s the lead in Funny Girl on Broadway right now.”

Nothing amuses her more than seeing her professor’s facial expression change in a heartbeat.

“I heard she’s very young, but she’s expected to get a Tony nod,” he tells her, like she wouldn’t already know all about the person she convinced to help her with her project.

“I don’t doubt it. I mean, she swept the floor with every competitive show choir in the country last year and she’s still at the top of her class at NYADA despite performing on Broadway full-time.” He looks incredibly impressed, like Santana did a good deal of research on Rachel. It makes her want to laugh, how she can so easily pull strings just by knowing someone worthwhile. “Oh, and I also happen to live with her.”

“Well I have a particular interest in your project then, Ms. Lopez.” With a small nod of his head, he disappears back into his office right off of the studio.

It’s the first time that Santana feels like this career path might be the right one. Sure, she’s not totally into schmoozing with idiots, but it takes a bit of skill and a savvy nature to work the system and forge useful connections. Rachel may have been her favorite punching bag for the majority of high school, but she’s also just become Santana’s number one client in the business.

~!~!~!~

She curses herself for not taking Mr. Schue’s songwriting workshops seriously in glee club. In fact, she’s amazed that people manage to put out more than one album in their careers just because actually writing songs is fucking hard.

It would probably help if she knew how to actually play a musical instrument. Sure, Rachel has given her access to her keyboard and Santana can plunk out some basic notes from being around the glee nerds so much in the choir room, but she can’t actually play the damn thing. Thankfully, YouTube gives her some basic lessons and she can find programs that help her come up with the musical side of the song, but she’ll have Rachel and Kurt clean it up for her later.

The lyrics, on the other hand, are impossible. My Headband might be the worst thing she’s ever heard - and she heard it a lot because Brittany took a weird liking to it - but her own attempts aren’t much better. It all feels superficial and sort of cliché. Everything on her iPod is about partying or love. She’s not in the market for a party anthem about drinking all night when she has to submit this to her professor for a grade.

That leaves love. And who is she to really write about love? She doesn’t doubt that what she had with Brittany was special in its own way, but the further she has grown away from it, the more it feels like it was more of an exploratory, hormone-driven lust than actually being love.

Things with Quinn have never quite been love. There’s been plenty of hate and vengeance; there’s been rough sex and hard slaps. Hell, sometimes there has even been solid loyalty and unbreakable friendship. Santana knew she had latent feelings for her way before they ever hooked up at the wedding, but she wouldn’t label any of it as love.

Everybody just keeps telling her to write what she knows. She’s barely nineteen in a giant city with no real life experience. Sure, her grandmother never wanted to see her again just because she loves women, but that’s about all the strife she’s had so far in her life.

After a week of tormenting herself over the song, she’s almost on the verge of asking Rachel if she can just record Only Child instead of writing an original piece. She slams a hand down on the keyboard, causing the cacophony of clashing notes to echo through her headphones almost painfully. Nothing is going right and she doesn’t want to bother Rachel with it all when Rachel barely even sleeps as it is between Funny Girl shows and classes at NYADA and required interviews and public appearances. Kurt basically lives in his Vogue.com office these days, so it’s not even like she can wander into his room and whine about how hard her life as a student is.

She takes a break to run down to the lobby of their building to grab the mail. As expected, there’s an envelope addressed from Quinn’s dorm room in New Haven.

Quinn’s letter is short this week - she was obviously really busy with school and everything. Plus they had been talking a little bit during the week. Short phone calls, a handful of text messages, and an occasional e-mail floated between them. Their communication wasn’t just repetitive small talk like it had been in the past. Sure, they don’t talk about super deep issues between them, but there’s an actual interest taken in each other’s life.

Santana tucks the letter into the pile that’s been building over the past few weeks before flipping through her clothes to find something to wear to work. Friday nights are always crazy at the bar and she needs something low cut enough to bring in some good tips. Going back to school has been a lot and she misses the huge cash flow from working full time. Her dad is helping with her bills and she technically has the funds from her mom, but there’s something awesome about leaving with a huge wad of cash after a good shift that makes her feel like she can survive on her own in this city.

The night of dancing and slinging bottles of liquor in a shirt so low cut that she’s convinced she’s going to lose control of her girls at many moments reminds Santana why she’s back in school. It’s exhausting and nobody really appreciates her unless it’s to make a pass at feeling her up. Sure, the wad of cash that she tucked into her pocket at the end of the night is enough to pay her rent this month alone - it’s the best part about working at a place where sex kind of sells and she has plenty to offer - but it doesn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing she’s doing something with her life.

“Feel like grabbing some early breakfast with the girls?” Leigh asks her as they close up shop. Ashten and the new girl have already finished their table cleanups and stand a few feet away waiting for them.

“Sure, why not?” Santana tells her with a shrug. With school she doesn’t get out nearly as much as she used to. She has a paper to write tomorrow, but she figures losing a couple of hours of sleep is worth getting some time with her friends. Leigh’s face breaks into a grin and they rush through their final wipe downs of the bar before joining the others.

The city is pretty quiet at this hour. It’s never silent, not in the way Lima is. She can’t see the stars or hear the crickets chirping or smell fresh cut grass. Santana likes the constant buzz that never stops here. There are less cars of the road, less jackhammers slamming against the concrete on a corner, but it’s anything but quiet.

They go to a diner a few blocks from the bar. The owner, a big Greek guy named Kostas, greets them with a big smile and four steaming mugs of coffee. It’s their typical place and Santana appreciates the little joy of having someone who recognizes her when she walks into a room. New York is a place filled with unfamiliar faces, and while Kostas isn’t her first choice, it’s nice to see the way his smile reaches his eyes as he looks at the girls like he’s caring for his own family.

After he takes their orders, Santana lounges back against the vinyl of the booth, her head falling onto Leigh’s shoulder. She’s tired and her feet ache from hours in stiff cowboy boots and the idea of working on her project weighs heavily on her shoulders. Leigh’s hand rests on Santana’s thigh casually and Santana doesn’t move it. It’s an odd comfort, the way she feels with Leigh; even after they spent a long time being more than friends it’s casual and not weird. She doesn’t get pangs of jealousy when Ashten asks about Leigh’s girlfriend or when Leigh talks about how she thinks this girl might be the one.

The idea that Leigh could feel that so soon, when she’s only known this girl for a few months, is one that freaks Santana out a little bit, but she keeps her mouth shut. She doesn’t believe in love at first sight or anything of that other sappy romance crap. Though, really she’s not the best judge on that front. It was over a year into sleeping with Brittany that she even let herself wonder what it meant. Other than Britt, she never really got serious enough with anybody to consider that it might last beyond a few good fucks.

However, the idea of her life without Quinn in it makes her queasy. It might just be that Quinn gets her like Santana doesn’t think anybody else ever will. That doesn’t mean they’re soul mates or true loves or anything. It just means that Quinn is important to her in a way most other people weren’t.

Their food comes and Santana picks at her eggs and home fries, chiming into the conversation on occasion. The new girl, Annie, is personable and sweet, though she talks about the men of New York like they’re the finest thing she’s ever seen, so Santana figures it’s good that at least she won’t be blurring that friendship line with her ever-present attraction to pretty blonde girls. 

Even contemplating the idea of sleeping with someone besides Quinn makes her suck in a deep breath. Leigh gives her a look with a raised eyebrow, like she knows something is going on in Santana’s head. Santana shakes her off, and sips at her coffee as she tries to clear the tangled disaster that continues to build in her head.

They all pay in cash out of their night’s wages, but sit at the table for another just chatting about nonsense. Kostos swings by every once in a while to fill their coffee mugs and never rushing them out of the restaurant. Despite all the caffeine, Santana feels the heaviness of her exhaustion settle into her bones and she yawns deeply before standing up.

“I need to get some sleep,” she tells the girls, grabbing her jacket from the hook next to their booth.

“Come crash with me,” Leigh tells her, standing up as well. 

“It’s fine, my place isn’t that far,” Santana assures her. Of course, Leigh knows exactly how far away Santana’s Bushwick loft is and it’ll be easily 45 minutes until she’s home with the early morning train schedule and her walk from her subway stop.

“I don’t like you taking the subway that far by yourself at this hour.” Santana wants to be annoyed with the way Leigh is babying her, like she’s not capable of handling herself in this city. She’s grown a lot in the past few months, but Leigh is treating her like she’s still the scared little girl that walked in Coyote Ugly that first day. “You’re exhausted and my place is a lot closer. It just makes sense.”

Santana heads out the door of the diner with Leigh still in tow.

“Really, I’m fine, Leigh. Thanks, though.”

“You haven’t been at my place since I called things off between us,” Leigh reminds her. Santana knows it’s true. It’s not necessarily that she’s been trying to avoid going to Leigh’s. But Leigh’s girlfriend is usually around and knowing that this girl is probably sleeping on the side of the bed that she had kept warm for a while just feels weird. Plus, it’s not like she has much free time lately with school and everything else going on.

“What are you trying to say?”

“Are things okay between us, San? Because I thought we were actually friends. But you’ve been distant and kind of awkward and I miss just hanging out with you.”

It’s a type of vulnerability that Santana isn’t used to seeing from Leigh. But it’s also four in the morning and she’s tired and not in the mood for dealing with drama.

“I’m just really busy. I’m back in school and it’s a lot more work than I thought it was going to be.” It’s a half-truth at best. School is busy, but lately, she had been trading her free evenings to hang out with Kurt or go out with some people in her classes.

“Does Quinn not want you to be hanging out with me anymore?”

That just makes Santana laugh. Why would Quinn have any say in what Santana does with her life? Yet part of Santana wishes that it was the case because that would mean that Quinn wanted her for herself instead of whatever wishy-washy scenario that defined them right now.

“I’m not dating Quinn. And either way, she wouldn’t get to decide whom I spend my time with. But I’m tired and I just want to pass out in my own bed, Leigh. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

She chooses to go in for a quick hug and avoids a friendly cheek kiss just because she’s frustrated right now and doesn’t want to think about the warmth that spreads through her anytime she’s too close to Leigh.

Leigh drops it thankfully and lets Santana walk off alone towards her subway entrance.

Santana sleeps later than she wanted to, but after her awkward conversation with Leigh and the huge amount of coffee she had drunk, she couldn’t sleep. By the time she pulls herself out of bed, Rachel has already left for her matinee performance and there’s a note on the calendar from Kurt that he’s assisting at a photo shoot for Vogue.com all afternoon.

The quiet loft is exactly what she needs to get her work done. Her paper doesn’t take long - she’s never been a straight A student, but she can bullshit with the best of them. That leaves her with Rachel’s keyboard and hours worth of YouTube tutorials to learn how to actually play the damn thing.

By the time Kurt wanders in, looking ragged in his designer clothes - a perk of being a poor kid working a fashion magazine, she figures - she can actually carry a tune with both of her hands simultaneously. Granted, it’s just “Happy Birthday”, but it’s a start. 

“Are you playing a child’s birthday party sometime soon?” Kurt questions, loosening the tie around his neck before kicking off his shoes and spreading out on the couch. Santana turns on her bench, a scowl playing on her lips.

“I figured it’d be easier to get used to this shit with a dumb song that I’ve been singing eighteen years,” she responds with a shrug, letting her fingers rest on the keys again and running through it, this time singing loudly and intentionally off-key.

“Okay, okay! Point made, Santana, just stop that awful noise,” Kurt pleads, propping his head up on his elbow. She laughs once and drops her hands into her lap.

“I’m getting nowhere on songwriting,” Santana tells him, wringing her fingers together.

“Platinum records don’t get written overnight either. Just write about something you feel and the music will follow. Plus, it’s just a freshman recording project so I’m sure your professor isn’t going to hard on you over the quality of your song. Isn’t 90% of your class writing jingles about Frosted Flakes?”

“You make it sound so easyyy,” Santana whines. She turns off the keyboard and nudges Kurt over on the couch so she can collapse on the other end. “And I don’t want to be on the same level as some acne-faced momma’s boy that is writing something about Dragonball-Z.”  
“I never thought I’d see the day when Santana Lopez became a perfectionist over her homework instead of her wardrobe,” Kurt muses, a smile playing at his lips.

“Oh, please. My wardrobe is still flawless and I haven’t even hit up Barney’s yet.”

She loves the casual banter with Kurt and the way that it somehow eases her stress level. The one nice thing about this class is the fact that the project goes for the entire course of the semester so she still has some time before she needs to get Rachel into the studio. So with that, she lets it go, if only for the night.

~!~!~!~

The weeks fade and Santana makes progress, though it feels like she’s standing still. All of her classes have picked up and she’s either working or doing schoolwork at every hour of the day. She’s exhausted and worn thin and, on more than one occasion, curses her decision to go back to school.

Before Santana can blink, it’s the weekend before Thanksgiving and she actually has some halfway decent lyrics and a basic piano part hashed out for her recording project. Now all she needs to do is actually find time to get Rachel into the studio and things might turn out okay.

“Why aren’t you coming to Lima for break?” Kurt asks her for the third time. For once, he actually has a few days off for the holiday and is actually looking forward to a long weekend in Ohio with his family.

Thanksgiving in Ohio would mean being dragged to her aunt’s house with her mom while her dad pulled overtime at the hospital. The idea of having her little cousins climbing all over her at the kid’s table and not being allowed to at least soften the atmosphere with a couple glasses of wine made the whole idea unappealing. 

Plus, with everybody else wanting to have an actual holiday, it meant Santana could pick up some extra shifts at work. Having some extra money right before Christmas meant she could finally buy the boots she had been eying up for two months and call it a Christmas present to herself.

“What is left for me in Lima?” she tosses back at Kurt. She knows that he doesn’t really have much background on Santana’s childhood, but with how many times she’s spat out the fact that she’s from Lima Heights (Adjacent), she figures he has the worst impression. Kurt’s family may not be perfect, but his dad worships him and Carole is a doting stepmother. Santana almost wants to vomit at the image of Finn and Kurt posing with their parents in dorky holiday sweaters for the family Christmas card right after their Thanksgiving feast.

“Most of the old crowd will be home. We’ll hang out and catch up and then by the time we’re sick of the place, it’ll be time to return to New York.”

It’s only been a few months since the crowd was in New York for Rachel’s opening night. Santana misses her friends, of course. But really what makes her firm about staying in New York is that Quinn will be on break from Yale. And while they’re good - in that they’re talking regularly again - Santana isn’t ready to have to deal with awkward civil conversation until they’ve actually figured out where this mess is headed.

“I’m scheduled to work all weekend. Rachel and I will be fine here by ourselves,” Santana assures him, closing the door on the conversation before he starts analyzing why she would rather stay. Thankfully, he takes the hint and drops the conversation.

~!~!~!~

Santana almost forgets that Thursday is actually Thanksgiving. Work on Wednesday night was so insane that she sleeps until almost two in the afternoon. There’s a note from Rachel on the counter saying she went out to buy supplies and it takes Santana a full five minutes to realize that Rachel means supplies for some ridiculous quasi-family dinner.

She doesn’t feel like celebrating. She knows there’s plenty to be thankful in her life and that she should probably focus on the positive aspects. Thanksgiving being here already means Christmas is only a few weeks away and she knows she won’t be able to get out of going home for that. Her mom simply won’t allow her to miss the Lopez gathering, even if it means coming to New York and dragging Santana home herself.

Santana isn’t sure if it’s just the nature of growing up or how jaded living in New York has made her, but the holidays have lost that feeling of magic. Part of it is probably because Brittany isn’t around with her childish exuberance over seeing the holiday decorations popping up in all the store windows. Christmas was always her grandmother’s holiday. Santana is the eldest grandchild, so for years she was the only one around for everybody to dote on. Her grandmother would save all year in a special bank, which was really just a tin can hidden under stacks of newspapers in the back of her closet, because Abuela Lopez doesn’t trust in the American banking system. No matter how many times Santana’s parents told her that Santana is just a toddler and won’t understand, Abuela always had to make sure that she got the biggest, fanciest toy that she could find for Santana to open on Christmas morning.

For the most part, Santana doesn’t remember anything more than the photographs and home videos show her of her abuela’s over-the-top Christmas presents. Even once her younger cousins were born, Santana was always at the center of her abuela’s Christmas traditions. She’d sit for hours and watch her abuela move around the kitchen like a young woman, singing carols in Spanish and baking all kinds of treats and letting Santana get a taste of the raw cookie dough before her mom would notice.

Christmas holds no appeal with her abuela still not talking to her. Last year was hard enough - her dad had managed to convince her abuela to at least come to the family party - but they spent the night across the room for each other, her abuela refusing to even acknowledge her presents. There were gifts for her cousins and nothing for her. She cried for hours Christmas night, tucked into a ball in her bed wishing that she didn’t have to be different.

Somehow, it’s like Rachel knows how much Santana doesn’t feel like celebrating because she returns with some random frozen hor d’oeuvres, Vietnamese take-out for herself, a wrapped turkey and stuffing sandwich and a huge bag of BBQ chips from the deli near the subway stop for Santana, a half-gallon of rocky road ice cream, a pint of vegan ice cream, and enough Twizzlers to last them through a nuclear war. It’s anything but a conventional Thanksgiving, but Santana is grateful for even the little bit of effort Rachel put into their quiet not-quite-a-holiday night at home.

They stay on the couch almost the whole afternoon, immersed in watching a documentary on dolphins - Santana will never admit it aloud but animals are pretty freaking rad - until they’re squinting in the darkness of the living room after the sun has faded away. It’s just the kind of day they both needed. Rachel hasn’t had a real day off from the theater in months so she’s extra grateful to be out of the spotlight with no makeup on or being forced into a chair to have her hair professionally done. It feels like it’s been forever since they got to spend quality time together. Santana figures this is the harsh reality of heading straight for adulthood - a lot less time for play and a whole lot of time for work.

Santana gets up and turns on the lamp next to the couch, bathing them in the dim yellow glow. While she’s up, she clears away their take-out containers and stops at the freezer to grab the ice cream. When she returns, she sees Rachel bent over her songwriting notebook with a pencil in hand.

“What are you doing?” she asks, trying to not jump to conclusions, but the idea of Rachel having the audacity to edit anything on her song without asking makes her want to jump into full-level Lima Heights rage.

“You spelled ‘commitment’ wrong,” Rachel says simply, and Santana leans over her shoulder to make sure that nothing is different beyond the spelling correction. “This is really good though, Santana. I’m happy to be part of this project.”

She sounds so sincere that Santana’s annoyance dissipates almost immediately, leaving a little sense of pride in its place. She knows the piano part isn’t great yet, but at least the lyrics seem to have come together.

“As long as it gets me through this project,” Santana replies nonchalantly, shrugging her shoulders like Rachel’s compliment doesn’t actually mean anything. Santana has never been particularly good at showing her appreciation.

“This is worth a lot more than just a project for school. It’s your first ever song. That’s a big deal, San. You should send the recording to Mr. Schue for the glee club to listen to when you finish producing it.”

Santana knows she should be proud of the work she’s doing, but telling Mr. Schue to show it off to the glee club just seems like ridiculous bragging that she’s on her way to making it in the business when that’s not even true yet. It’s one freshman level recording class. She’s only using a quarter of the soundboard to produce it and it’s only going to have the piano part and some minor rhythm sections. Maybe a few years down the road when she’s producing actual music, but right now she has no intention of anybody besides her roommates and her class getting to hear her work.

“We’ll see,” Santana says, not committing herself to any ridiculous lesson that Mr. Schue would come up with in response. There’s definitely no way she’s going to Lima to give some pep talk to a bunch of gawky high school kids about how they’ll all be musical sensations as long as they try hard enough. Some day they’ll have to realize that people like Rachel Berry are the exception, not the rule.

“Can we practice tonight?” Rachel says excitedly, dropping the notebook back onto the coffee table.

“It’s your only night off from Funny Girl. Shouldn’t you be saving your voice and resting for once?”

“I want to sing anything other than ‘Don’t Rain on my Parade’. I never thought there would be a day that I would say that,” Rachel responds with a giggle. It makes sense why people burn out of performing live on Broadway after a few years and try to move onto film and television. Singing the same songs eight shows a week has got to be awful after a while.

Rachel is a pretty stubborn person, and Santana knows that if she doesn’t agree, then Rachel is going to plug in her iPod to start a karaoke session instead. So she makes her way over to the keyboard and sits on the stool. With a flip of the switch, the controls light up on the dashboard. Her music is messy - she’s never been great with formally reading notes on a sheet - but at this point she knows the piano part by heart.

She rests her hands against the keys and with a deep breath filling her chest, she starts to play. She gets through the part for the first verse with no sound beyond the tinkling of the piano keys, but as she moves into the bridge, Rachel voice takes over. Santana almost forgets to keep playing.

Really, Rachel is just reading lyrics off of a page. Santana hadn’t actually written the notes out yet as she had only finalized the words yesterday. But there’s really no need for it because Rachel seems to understand her vision and she follows the melody of the piano flawlessly, her pitch, as always, completely perfect.

She cuts out again for the second verse and lets Santana play through it. Santana figures she’s trying to get a feel for the music, but she finds herself anticipating Rachel’s voice re-entering for the chorus again. By the end of the song, she feels giddy with the progress.

“You sounded awesome,” she tells Rachel, spinning on her stool to face her roommate, who is frantically scribbling notes in Santana’s notebook.

“The piano part is really good. I think if we beef up the chords for your left hand, it’ll resonate a little better for recording. And I know you haven’t actually written the vocal part, but I thought I’d try something out against your piano melody. I can adjust however you want to make it represent the sound you’re going for.”

“It sounded good. Keep whatever you did.”

“It’s your song, Santana. I don’t want to take liberties and impede on your project. It does have a really cool Vanessa Carlton vibe that sounds nice and clean with just the voice and piano parts.”

They run through it a few more times, Rachel adding into the verses as well until it seems like a good, though still rough, song. Rachel slides onto the stool beside her and plunks out some chord progressions for Santana to add a little bit of bulk behind the melody.

By the time they give up for the night, Santana feels really good about it. Rachel looks at her calendar and they schedule some time in the studio so that they can actually record during the week.

Rachel decides to turn in early - Santana is pretty sure the girl hasn’t gotten a full night’s sleep in two months - leaving Santana to the living room on her own. Her phone rings during the third episode of Desperate Housewives. She picks up the call with a quick glance at the name on the screen.

“Hey, Q.”

“Hey. Happy Thanksgiving,” Quinn responds, sounding shy.

“Yeah, you too.” She pauses the episode, figuring if Quinn is calling at eleven o’clock on a holiday that something might be wrong.

“I thought I’d see you and Rachel this weekend,” Quinn tells her casually. They’ve been discussing their lives more lately, but Santana had avoided the topic of her plans for the holiday weekend.

“Yeah, we both have to work most of the weekend. We had a low-key Thanksgiving dinner tonight and hung out. Really, it’s been fine.” She’s not sure that a turkey sandwich and ice cream really counts as a Thanksgiving dinner necessarily, but she’d rather not have Quinn’s pity on her missing out on real carved turkey and all the fixings of a family holiday.

“Well at least you’re not there alone, I suppose. I saw the glee kids last night for a while. We all missed you girls.” Santana can just imagine them all sitting around in Puck and Finn’s apartment, drinking warm beer and talking about how awesome life is turning out to be. Part of her wishes she was seeing her friends, but a bigger part reminds her that she’s past caring about the little dramatics that being in Lima always evolves into. Last time she was there, she ended up sharing a bed with Quinn in a hotel room, and obviously that didn’t play out quite as well as one would’ve hoped.

“We worked on my song for a bit. I think it’s going to be ready for the recording studio this week,” Santana tells her, pulling any attention away from the pity party Quinn obviously is on the verge of throwing for her and Rachel.

“When will I get to hear it then?” Quinn asks her. Santana freezes. It makes sense that Quinn would want to hear the actual song after how much time she’s spent listening to Santana talk about the project. However, Santana feels like everybody is getting way too hyped to see the final product. She knows her song is decent - at least it has more substance than My Cup - but it’s not like she asks to read Quinn’s papers that she has to hand in for her class. Granted, those papers are probably as boring as being forced to watch paint dry, but still, the concept should be the same.

“It’s still far away from anything that Rachel would allow her professional name to be attached to. Let’s just leave it at that,” Santana tells her. Sure, she’s using Rachel as a scapegoat a little bit. But she wouldn’t want Rachel to have to deal with a student-produced song to leak just as her career is starting to take off either. She’s trying to protect her as a friend - it’s bad enough that Rachel has to worry about where she goes on dates or being spotted drinking underage at Callbacks with her friends. She’s a small-time star at best, yet somehow there are still people that are concerned with her every move.

Quinn drops it without question. Nobody would want to mess with Rachel’s career, so even if Santana does trust Quinn to not share the song with anybody else, they can pretend that the risk of the song being leaked is really the reason why Santana isn’t giving in automatically.

They survive through a few more minutes of awkward talk about Quinn’s family Thanksgiving and what has changed in Lima since the last time Santana was in town. Finally, Quinn lets out a big yawn - it sounds more exaggerated than a real yawn would, in Santana’s opinion, and they say goodnight before hanging up.

~!~!~!~

The rest of the semester seems to fly by. On top of her class time, Santana spends most of her days pent up in the studio working on her project. She lays down the piano track - though it takes her nearly 20 takes of playing it before she asks Rachel if she’ll play it. Her piano skills still are clunky and methodic and it doesn’t fit the tone of the song. Rachel agrees after some back and forth and Santana is happy with the final result. 

The voice recording, however, takes much more time. Part of it is because Santana isn’t great at the controls of the sound booth yet, but a large majority is that Rachel is, unsurprisingly, a perfectionist diva when it comes to her singing. Santana has to keep reminding herself that Rachel is acting like most musicians that she will probably deal with in her career. Plus, Rachel is working for free and wants Santana’s project to come out as impressive as possible, so she can’t really complain.

It takes three sessions before Rachel is satisfied with her part. Santana has to admit, it was completely worth all of the time. Rachel sounds amazing and she completely molded to the tone of Santana’s song. After a final listen-through and her mark of approval, Rachel takes off for the theater, leaving Santana alone in the studio. She turns on the piano and voice tracks simultaneously and listens through her headphones. It’s pretty stripped down with just the acoustic piano and Rachel’s powerhouse voice, but she doesn’t think that it needs much more. 

Santana spends the rest of the afternoon playing with adding some basic percussion underneath the piano part until she knows it sounds as good as her skills will allow. It’s definitely not professional work, but she’s proud of her little song. She has a week until it’s due to play around with it, but she plugs in her flash drive and saves the file before leaving the studio for the day.

She’s the third one to present her project. The first two boys made some ridiculous music tracks that sound like they came from a demented version of Mario Kart with high-pitched squeaky sound effects instead of actual lyrics. She wipes her sweaty hands on the back of her slacks and walks to the front of the room, her heels clicking against the linoleum tiles.

She plugs her iPod into the jack and then turns back to her class before she presses play.

“I recorded a song that features acoustic piano and vocals primarily, with some basic percussive elements. The vocals were recorded by Miss Rachel Berry who is currently starring as Fanny Brice in the Broadway revival of Funny Girl.”

She hears the murmur from some of her classmates at Rachel’s name. Most of them don’t seem like musical kids, but she knows it sounds impressive to have an actual musician featured on her track. Santana presses play and then watches the expressions on her classmates’ faces as her song streams through the surround sound.

By the end, the two boys that went before her look as pale as ghosts like they know their projects are not even in the same league as her song. She wants to smirk at them knowingly, but she refrains as she can feel her professor’s eyes on her.

The other eleven projects that come after Santana’s aren’t much better than the first two that she sat through. She doodles in her notebook as she listens to poorly produced jingles and half-assed attempts at songs that are all about some ridiculously sappy relationship.

Her professor wraps up at the end and thanks them all for working hard for the whole semester before dismissing them. Santana has one foot out of the door when she hears him call her name.

“Miss Lopez, may I have a word, please?” She halts and moves out of the way of her classmates filing out before double backing to where he’s standing by the podium.

“Yes, sir?”

“Please tell Miss Berry that she has a wonderful gift.”

“Of course,” she tells him with a little nod.

“Your song was very good, Miss Lopez. You have a way to go, but I think you have a lot of potential. It’s obvious that you took this assignment very seriously and that kind of work ethic will pay off in this business.” 

With a little tip of his head, she knows she’s dismissed, and she tries to contain her giddy smile until she can escape from the classroom. It’s not an automatic A, but she knows whatever shows up on her transcript in a few weeks is something that she earned because she worked for it. And that alone is enough to give her reason to be happy. Life is finally feeling like it’s falling into place and she couldn’t be happier. But the first person she wants to tell is the girl who is sitting in a French final right now in New Haven.


	17. Chapter 17

Three days before Christmas, Santana stops at the mailbox before she treks up to the empty apartment. She smells like stale booze from a long shift at the bar - the holiday crowd in New York seems to be even more rowdy - and she’s ready to shower and pass out, but as she flips through the pile of bills and magazines, she comes across a letter from Quinn.

She wasn’t expecting a letter this week with Quinn being in Lima for her winter break and all the craziness with the holiday only days away. She deposits the rest of the mail onto the kitchen table and carries the letter with her to the couch. Her heart races with the anticipation of what’s inside. 

For some reason, it feels like an early Christmas gift; having Quinn give up these little pieces of herself in her words is worth more than the check her parents mailed her when she said she wouldn’t be home for Christmas. She tears open the corner and rips along the top of the envelope carefully, making sure to not disturb the letter inside. Once it’s open, she takes a deep breath and unfolds it, smoothing out the creases in the pages against her lap.

Santana,  
This is the last letter I’m going to be sending you. The idea of that makes me kind of melancholy; there’s been something therapeutic in communicating with you in this way. I feel like these letters have allowed you to get to know me in a way that I never imagined. These words have let my walls fall away, have let my wounds from years of heartache and disappointment bleed across the pages. I’m letting you understand even the worst parts of me - the parts I usually try to keep hidden from even myself - and it’s terrifying.   
Yet, you’re still on the other end of the line every time I call. My text messages and emails don’t go unanswered. Somehow, despite seeing how completely fucked up I seem to be, you’re still here. By the grace of some power that I can’t explain, my crazy, messed-up world hasn’t scared you away.  
My words feel safe when they’re with you. I feel safe when I know you’re there holding my secrets close and helping me heal. I don’t know what I did to deserve someone like you in my life, but just know that you’ve done so much for me just by reading these letters every week and not giving up on me.   
Maybe you’re terrified about what you see in me now that I’ve opened the floodgates. Maybe it’s taken me so long to really figure out what I want that you’ve moved on to greener pastures. But maybe, just maybe, you’ve learned to love the mess that I am.   
I’d never ask you to stay when I know how hard it must be to have to listen to how screwed up I am for so many weeks without so much as a hint to where my head is with you. The truth is that you deserve a real conversation. You deserve to be sitting across from me and hear the words come directly from my mouth and be able to react in whatever way you feel like. You’ve been so patient and so unbelievably understanding. Wherever things go from this letter, I’ll be grateful that you’ve been so amazing to me even when I was horrible for you.  
Rachel invited me to come to New York for New Year’s and stay for few days afterwards. I’m not going to give her an answer until I hear from you. It’s completely up to you. If you’re not ready to see me and talk, I completely understand.   
Have a great Christmas, Santana. Lima misses you. I miss you.

Love,

Quinn

Santana walks to her room and gathers the stack of letters that have been growing since the weekend she sent Quinn away. There are pages of Quinn’s deepest thoughts and biggest regrets etched out in blue ink. These are the things Quinn has hid away from the rest of the world. 

She rereads the letter that Quinn wrote about the day she gave up Beth. Despite having read it for the first time weeks ago, the tears still roll down her cheeks at the thought of Quinn lying in that hospital bed having to make such a huge decision by herself. She gave up a huge piece of herself to give that little girl a better life than she could have provided.

There is the letter about finding out she got into Yale. There’s a paragraph about finding out about Shelby and Puck. There are four full pages about Quinn’s skank phase and how much she hated herself. Each word makes the tears fall harder and Santana doesn’t bother to wipe them away.

Seeing Quinn again is what she wants the most, but it also scares her to the point where she doesn’t know that she can answer Quinn at all. This letter isn’t like the others. There are no confessions, no regrets, no what ifs. It is simply Quinn; just Quinn telling her that she feels safe putting her secrets in Santana. Santana doesn’t want to get her hopes up. She doesn’t want to put her happiness back in Quinn’s hands after how much it has hurt being on this roller coaster for the past ten months.

Yet despite the hurt, Quinn makes her soar the highest. Quinn is the one that believes in Santana when Santana can’t even see what her future holds. If Santana is being completely honest, she would give Quinn all of her secrets too. Because despite their fights and slaps and backstabbing frenemy relationship for all of these years, she also knows that Quinn would treat them like her own. Quinn would help her move past the anger of what happened with Finn in that hallway. Quinn would help her make sense of why it hurts so much every single day that her Abuela doesn’t care that she won’t be there for Christmas this year. 

New York has done a lot for Santana. She knows who she is and she embraces it wholeheartedly. Santana is confident that she can make it in this world and that she controls her own happiness. The way their relationship had been when they ended up in that hotel room was never anything that could be healthy for either of them. They needed to grow and learn to love themselves before they could love anybody else.

But she’s at that point. She’s loved Quinn for years, in her own twisted, fucked up, destructive way. She loves herself first now though. And for some reason, that makes all the difference.

Leigh is in New York for Christmas too - her parents are flying in on Christmas Eve. After Santana finally manages to put Quinn’s letters away and pull herself together, she calls Leigh.

Leigh picks up on the second ring with her regular playful tone. It’s relieving - especially when they haven’t really talked much after the incident outside the diner. Santana is surprised at how readily Leigh agrees to come over and hang out that she feels even worse about neglecting her friends lately.

Within the hour Leigh is knocking on the door to the loft with a twelve pack of beer in hand. She pulls two out and passes the rest to Santana, who shoves them in to the fridge before joining Leigh in the living room. As always, Leigh has already made herself comfortable.

The cool thing about Leigh is how easily she forgives and moves on. Santana tries to apologize for her shitty behavior, but Leigh just holds up a hand to stop her before she twists open a beer and passes it to Santana without a word. It’s a truce and Santana is grateful for the escape. So she sips her beer and sinks back into the couch, letting her body relax.

“So why are you hiding out in New York for the holidays?” Leigh questions after the second beer. Santana looks up from where she’s trying to pick a new song from her music library to replace the blaring One Direction that Leigh already teased her mercilessly about.

“There’s nothing for me in Lima anymore,” Santana replies with a shrug, taking a swig of her beer.

“You mean like your parents and friends? Because I’m pretty sure they’d like to see you.”

Santana does feel a little guilty at how disappointed her mom sounded on the phone when she finally told her that she couldn’t make it home for Christmas. Even Brittany seemed upset at the fact that Santana wouldn’t be attending the annual Pierce Christmas Eve party. Being the third wheel to her ex-girlfriend and her new significant other wasn’t really her idea of a happy holiday, however.

Being in New York means avoiding the one place that makes her doubt how far she’s come this year. Lima feels like a black hole to her these days. It’s a weight holding her back from where she wants to be. Sure, she misses her friends, but they can come to New York. When she has the cash, she can visit Britt and Mercedes in Los Angeles. There’s no need to be in Lima more than necessary.

“They could come to New York if they really wanted to see me,” Santana muses. “Plus, it’s not like you ran home for the holidays either.”

“Touché. But my parents prefer Christmas in New York. I would have went home if they hadn’t chosen to come here first.”

Santana doesn’t have a response, so she just stares off and focuses on drinking her beer. A good buzz is exactly what she wants tonight.

By the fifth beer, Santana’s head ends up in Leigh’s lap on the couch as they just chill out and listen to her playlist streaming through Rachel’s fancy speakers. She feels like a lightweight at the fact that she feels tipsy and warm all over already while Leigh seems perfectly fine. Leigh’s phone vibrates on the armrest every once in a while and Santana can’t help but catch the way that Leigh’s lips curl into a tiny smile with every single new message.

“She’s something special, isn’t she?” Santana comments.

“Hmm?” Leigh mumbles, pulling her eyes away from the phone screen. “She’s pretty great,” she admits, unable to hide her happiness.

“Do you think she’s the one?” Santana asks her, sitting up and curling up on the other corner of the couch so she can face Leigh.

Leigh shrugs, her fingers playing with the hem of the blanket covering her legs.

“We’re still having fun and she knows me better than anybody ever has. But some days I wake up and just feel like things are too perfect and it’s all going to crash around me when I’m least expecting it. I mean, she’s a professional dancer. Her career can take her anywhere in the world and she could be gone tomorrow before I get a chance to even ask her to stay.”

“Would you?”

“Would I what?” Leigh shoots back, looking up to meet Santana’s eyes.

“Ask her to stay.”

Leigh ponders for a long moment. Santana watches the way her eyes dart as she thinks, but her own mind is lost in the letters stacked on her nightstand.

“I don’t think I could. Her passion is dancing. Her first love is always going to be dancing. And I don’t think she’s the kind of person that would be happy if they felt like they had to stay in one place. The last thing I would want is for her to stay, but resent me for the fact that she did.”

Santana knows that she has a ton to learn about love. Brittany was hardly a warm-up round for what it’s like to have a real, mature relationship. Would she be able to let someone she loves walk away without even trying to get them to stay? Maybe it’s selfish, but she doesn’t think she could be as noble as Leigh is.

“Another beer?” she asks, changing the subject before she ruins the mood. Leigh nods and passes her the empty bottle in her hand, her focus back on the text message from her girlfriend.

By the time Santana gets back to the living room, Leigh has dropped her cell phone onto the coffee table and stretched out across the couch. Santana squeezes in on the other end, her feet overlapping with Leigh’s in the middle.

“What’s up with you and Quinn?” Leigh asks Santana, accepting the cold beer from her.

Again the scenes from the letter flash through her vision like an instant movie, the images so clear in her head.

“God, I don’t even know where to start,” Santana admits. She would never spill about Quinn’s secrets and history, but there’s so much that she doesn’t know how to work through without talking to somebody about it.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Leigh reminds her, offering her an out from dealing with whatever it is that’s monopolizing her thoughts.

“I need to. I just don’t know how.” Leigh nods in understanding. It’s times like these that Santana is grateful that Leigh doesn’t treat her like a young, inexperienced kid. “Quinn is just so...hard. God, she’s frustrating. Infuriating, really. But somehow she just gets to me in the best and worst of ways. One second she makes me feel like I’m flying and the next I’m crashing and breaking into a million pieces.”

“That weird place between friends and lovers is kind of like the Bermuda Triangle,” Leigh replies. “When you know someone as well as you know Quinn, the lines are so blurred that you can’t even figure out if she’s infuriating because you love the fuck out of her and want her to realize that you’re not going anywhere despite the fact that she’s not perfect or if she’s infuriating because she grates on every last nerve in your body.”

Leigh puts her feelings into words that makes it feel so black and white when the situation is anything but. Santana sighs and nods. Having feelings for Quinn definitely feels like being stuck between a rock and a hard place the majority of the time.

“She’s been writing me these letters spilling her entire soul out to me since the last time I saw her. Basically I told her to leave and stop fucking with my feelings. But now she’s fucking with me in an entirely different way.”

“Is it because you can’t help but want to see those pieces she’s kept hidden for so long? Or because you feel like she’s not being completely honest with you?”

“In all of these letters, she’s never once told me why she’s bothering to do it all. I don’t know if she’s just trying to repair our friendship or if it’s because she wants to know if I can fall in love with even the worst parts of her. But this last letter comes and she wants to come to New York after Christmas, but she wants my permission first. And I don’t know what to say to her. After all these months of knowing that all I wanted is Quinn, the possibility that it might actually be an option after all this crazy shit is fucking scary.”

“Do you trust her?”

Santana laughs. It’s absurd to think that a question that sounds so simple is really so fucking complex.

“You really like to ask the hard-hitting questions, don’t you?”

“I’m going to be a psychologist, afterall,” Leigh reminds her.

“Well thanks for the free shrink session then, doc.”

They both laugh and despite the weight of everything with Quinn, Santana feels light-hearted.

“It’s not a question you can necessarily answer right now. There are levels of trust. You and Quinn have struggled with all of them. It’s not something that you’re going to automatically be comfortable with because putting your trust could mean crashing and burning for good.”

“But it could also mean flying forever, right?”

“That’s my girl - always the optimistic one,” Leigh tells her with a smile. “Now get your ass off the couch because we’re young and hot and it’d be a shame if we didn’t dance until the sun comes up.”

~!~!~!~

Christmas is a quiet affair. Santana video chats with her parents in the morning before her mom needs to start cooking for the party. Her phone goes off all day with messages from her friends with well-wishes. It’s lonely being in the apartment by herself while everybody is with their families and for the first time, she regrets not giving in and heading to Lima.

She misses her abuela and her rambunctious little cousins. Instead of a big dinner of her mom’s tamales, she makes a grilled cheese and eats it in her pajamas on the couch while watching some ridiculous holiday special on the Hallmark channel. It’s depressing and lonely, but she chose this and part of her tries to believe that it’s for the best.

After her dinner, she decides to leave the apartment for a while, just to have something to do. It’s cold and windy, chilling her instantly to the bone, but she strolls through the Bushwick streets anyway, taking in the random displays of Christmas lights. After weeks of New York being insane with the crazy shoppers and millions of tourists, it’s magically peaceful. 

Once it hits the point that she can no longer feel her fingers, Santana figures she should head back to the apartment. It’s early, but she’s had enough of the holiday season and she’s ready for life to go back to normal with Kurt and Rachel fighting one another over hair products and hot water and the three of them squeezing into the kitchen as they try to make breakfast and get coffee before classes and work in the morning. The apartment is boring without the drama queens and Santana likes it better when they’re around, even if it means dealing with Rachel’s constant singing and Kurt leaving ten moisturizers on the ledge of the bathroom sink.

She puts on the ridiculous fleece pajama pants with the cartoon reindeer on them that her mom mailed her and cuddles up in her bed. She knows that she needs to give Quinn an answer. New Year’s Eve is only a week away and there are flights to be arranged. But she can’t decide if she’s ready to face everything head on.

Two scenarios keep flipping through her mind. The first one is her optimistic vision of how the reunion could go. They have a mature conversation that ends with confessions of love and potential for a real future together. New Year’s Eve and the parties and excitement all go forgotten because they are too wrapped up in one another to care. In the second scenario, they fight and argue because despite how much they want to, they don’t trust each other. They’re closed-off in person, even when they can spill everything through letters. Eventually it hits the point that even being friends is toxic and they move on, getting lost in their own separate lives.

Both of them scare her. Things with Quinn are always so unpredictable, so unsure.

But it’s Christmas and all she wants is to hear is Quinn’s voice on the other side of the phone telling her that she can’t wait to see her soon. For months she’s relied on Quinn to initiate contact, for Quinn to prove again and again that she is trying to open up so that she can really be in Santana’s life without everything falling apart. At some point, Santana knows she needs to either start putting herself on the line too or otherwise live with the fact that this situation is never going to have a shot.

So she picks up the phone. And she hovers over Quinn’s name for a solid five minutes. It’s late enough that she should be done with family dinner and whatever else is going on, but early enough that she’d still be awake. Knowing Quinn, she’s curled up in a chair somewhere, a book in her lap while she twirls the edges of her hair around her fingertips. Santana doesn’t want to disturb her, but she hopes that the interruption is a welcome one. Finally she hits the call button and presses the phone against her ear. It’s the last ring before Quinn answers it, sounding almost breathless.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” Santana immediately apologizes, regretting the decision to call on a holiday when she knows that Quinn is home with her family.

“No, no, it’s fine. I just left my phone in the bedroom and I was taking a bath.”

Santana’s cheeks redden with the way her mind immediately pictures Quinn naked, soaking in piles of bubbles with candles along the edge of the bathtub. Sure, she took baths with Brittany sometimes and it was sensual sometimes, but Brittany could make anything feel dirty as fuck - including getting clean. Quinn, however, is elegant and sensual even in her tiniest gestures. Just the image of the water slipping along her skin is enough for Santana’s neck and ears to burn with latent arousal.

“Oh.” It’s all Santana can think to respond with. She shakes her head and tries to clear her mind to address the real purpose for the phone call. “Well, Merry Christmas, Quinn.”

“Merry Christmas,” she responds quietly, like she knows there’s more to this phone call than holiday wishes. “I hope you’ve had a good day.”

“It’s been okay,” Santana lies. There’s no reason for anybody to pity her just because she avoided going home to Lima for Christmas. “New York is serene and it’s been nice to have some alone time.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re relaxing,” she replies simply, like she’s afraid to say anything controversial. Santana almost misses Quinn’s blunt honesty about how she’s being ridiculous by avoiding Lima for the holidays. She knows their friendship is still so fragile. There’s no slapping over a piano about how Santana is acting because they’re already on the verge of falling apart.

“How’s your Christmas going?” Santana asks her, trying to take the focus off of herself.

“It’s fine,” Quinn says, stopping herself before she gives up too much information about how much she hates being home. It’s an awkward silence, but she seems to realize that she’s doing exactly what she said she’s trying to not do in her letters. “It’s still hard being home since the divorce. Holidays now are nothing like they were growing up. Sometimes it just feels like the world ripped off the largest band-aid to show me that I don’t have a perfect little happy family.”

Reading her letters is so much different than having to respond immediately. It’s new and intimidating, but Santana knows that it’s her turn to show Quinn how much it means to her that she’s been opening herself up week after week.

“I didn’t come home because I couldn’t bear being around my grandmother after she told me she never wants to see me again.”

“Oh, Santana.” Quinn’s voice drops dangerously close to being beyond sympathetic and into the realm of pitying Santana. “I know that it must be really hard when she practically raised you.”

“Yeah, I mean I thought that she’d love me for who I am. But obviously there are some things about me that she just can’t look past.”

“It’s been hard enough not having my dad around to praise my success in college. I haven’t heard him say that he’s proud of me once since the day he threw me out for being pregnant. But at least there’s an acknowledgement that I’m his kid, even if he’s living with his new family in Cleveland instead.”

What is there to say that would make any of this easier? Quinn has dealt with so much and yet still can find it within herself to trust Santana, to constantly try to give pieces of herself to Santana.

“I’m sure that’s really hard for you,” she responds, trying to sound sincere. She feels Quinn’s pain rattle through her, but she really sucks at this feelings crap. Santana knows that Quinn doesn’t want her pity or her sympathy - she just wants Santana to understand her. It’s incredibly overwhelming for Santana and she finds herself starting to panic with how serious this simple phone call has become.

“At least I have someone to talk about it now,” Quinn says, and it hurts more than it should. Santana knows it’s not fair to give Quinn false hope that she’s ready for this. 

“Quinn, I’m sorry, but I just don’t think I’m ready to see you and deal with everything. It’s just too much right now and I love how far we’ve come with the letters and phone calls, but that’s all I can handle right now.”

Santana knows that her timing is probably shitty with the way that they’re actually getting somewhere. Her conversation with Leigh rattles through her mind. She trusts Quinn in most ways, but she doesn’t trust her own instability amidst the holiday season to ruin the progress they’re actually making.

“I understand,” Quinn replies simply.

“It’s just that -” Santana starts, trying to explain herself. Just Quinn’s tone makes her feel like she’s really screwed up.

“You don’t need to explain yourself, Santana. I understand that you’re not ready. I’ll head up to New Haven and catch up with some friends in the area instead and maybe once we’re both settled into next semester, we’ll find some time to see each other.”

It’s odd that Quinn is so understanding about this. She has put everything into opening herself up to making this relationship healthy. She deserves to be angry that she’s still being pushed away after everything she’s been doing to make things better. But she’s calm and reminds Santana that it’s okay to not be ready.

“For what it’s worth, I’m really glad I talked to you today. It’s been the best part of my Christmas.”

“That’s worth a lot,” Quinn tells her, and it sounds sincere. “I’m happy you called.”

“I hope you enjoy the rest of your Christmas,” Santana tells her. She’s still not sure about her decision to not see Quinn so soon, but she does still want the girl to be happy nonetheless.

“You too, San. I’ll call you when I get back to New Haven, okay?”

“Yeah, okay. Have a good night.”

“Night.”

Santana ends the call and drops the phone onto the bed beside her. The conversation didn’t make her feel any better. Going into it, she didn’t even know what her decision about New Year’s was, and now Quinn definitely won’t be here. For the most part, she’s relieved that she can just enjoy a fun night with her friends. Yet there’s a little nagging feeling that she turned Quinn away just because she’s scared of facing the possibility of real happiness. It’s felt unattainable for so long that even the chance that it could happen is completely overwhelming. If they never talk, then she doesn’t have to be let down when it doesn’t work out. It’s easier to blame herself than to put any of it into Quinn’s hands.

~!~!~!~

Rachel and Kurt return two days after Christmas laden with gifts and overstuffed on home cooking. Santana, on the other hand, is pretty sure she’s lost weight with all of the hours working at the bar and having hardly bothered with feeding herself.

She sits on Rachel’s bed as her roommate unpacks her suitcase, each article of clothing folded in Rachel’s typical perfectionist fashion.

“How was Lima?”

Rachel sighs as she hangs up a group of shirts.

“Lima was eventful. What is it about the holiday season and everybody feeling the need to try to rekindle relationships that obviously didn’t work the first time?” Santana’s chest tightens. Sure, she’s never actually been in a relationship with Quinn, but being alone through the holidays definitely made her wish there was more going on with them than this fragile friendship.

Santana doesn’t even want to ask, however. She’s more than over Rachel and Finn’s back-and-forth relationship that has been going on for the better part of the past three years. Kurt and Blaine aren’t much better. Really, she’s over high school and its residual drama in general.

“New York was nice and serene,” Santana comments, trying to not smirk at her.

Rachel puts her shoes in a perfect row before turning back to Santana.

“Quinn seemed a little down about your absence,” Rachel throws out in her typical faux-nonchalant manner that drives Santana completely bonkers. “She also mentioned that she can’t come to New York for New Year’s Eve.”

Santana refuses to answer. She focuses on keeping her face steady to not give anything away. Really, she doesn’t know why Rachel is so interested in her and Quinn’s business in the first place. Rachel doesn’t give up though. She just keeps staring at Santana pointedly.

“What is it, Hobbit?” Santana finally answers, sick of being observed like she’s on display.

“You have something to do with the fact that she’s not coming. I just know it,” Rachel starts. “Why can’t you just realize that she is trying so hard to mean something to you? Do you not even care about the fact that she’s going to be alone on New Year’s now because you’d rather go out and get drunk and hook up with some random girl that you’re never even going to call again?”

“Rach -”

“No, I’m not finished, Santana. Why are you trying to push this girl away when it’s so freaking obvious to everybody that you’re in love with her? What do you expect to happen if you keep acting like she means nothing to you? She’s beautiful and smart and she’s not going to wait forever for you, Santana.”

“Can I talk yet?” Santana snarks at her, her blood pressure rising with every second. Rachel gives her a dramatic hand gesture that tells her to go ahead and proceed.

“What does it matter to you anyway? Why do you care if I am throwing away what you obviously see as my only chance at happiness? Don’t you think that it’s more important that I’m happy with myself first before I submit someone else to all of my fucking baggage?” She stands up and stomps over to where Rachel is standing. A laugh escapes her lips before she can try to get control of her insane flood of emotions. “No, of course you don’t. You’re still pining over your pathetic hometown boyfriend instead of actually enjoying the fact that you’re a fucking star on a Broadway stage. My fucking god, Rachel, you’re getting everything you’ve dreamed about, yet you go home to Lima and get wrapped back up in Finn’s shit. When are you going to realize that you can be happy without a leading man dangling from your fucking arm?”

Rachel starts crying, which just makes Santana roll her eyes. No matter what, she’s always the biggest drama queen. Except she doesn’t stop crying. It gets to the point that her shoulders are shaking with the force of her sobs and Santana can’t take it anymore. She pulls Rachel into her arms and hugs her until Rachel’s body finally calms down, leaving her sniffling against Santana’s shoulder.

“Why do I let him get to me so much?”

“The same reason that Quinn gets to me. Despite all the fucking ridiculous crap they put us through, we’re in love with them.” Rachel perks up immediately as she steps back from Santana. “Why the fuck are you looking at me like I just gave you a kitten and named it after Streisand?”

“You’re in love with Quinn.”

“Again, why do you give a rat’s ass who I love?”

“God, you’re impossible, Santana. But I suppose this is progress. And I won’t impose myself into your situation because whatever you do about Quinn is your business. But please just let yourself be happy.”

Santana gives her a little nod and heads to her own room to recover from the ever-dramatic encounter that comes with being Rachel Berry’s roommate. Despite all of it, despite the fact that she knows that she would be a complete fucking moron if she lets Quinn slip away, she doesn’t do anything. She doesn’t call Quinn to tell her she’s changed her mind. There’s still too much that she should figure out for herself before she pulls Quinn back into it all.

~!~!~!~

“Callbacks is an every night bar, it is not acceptable for New Year’s Eve,” Santana protests.

“But we know that we’ll be able to get on the karaoke list there!” Kurt argues.

“Seriously?! We’re in the closet at Vogue picking out clothes to wear out on New Year’s and you want to go to a dive bar? I am not wasting a good pair of Jimmy Choos on those sticky, disgusting floors.”

Rachel skips out from behind a rack of dresses, her arms filled with outfits to try on. Kurt looks like he’s about to have a heart attack at the way she’s wrinkling them.

“Maybe she’s right, Kurt,” Rachel muses. “It’s not often we get to be the belles of the ball.”

Santana can’t help but laugh. Rachel is a Broadway starlet. People pay her to wear their designs on red carpets now, yet raiding last season’s picks in the Vogue closet still makes her act like this is the ultimate form of playing dress-up.

“We haven’t been to Callbacks in weeks though,” Kurt whines. “Plus, we know that our fake IDs work there.”

“Look, Elton John, I want to dance in a skimpy ass dress and stiletto heels while I drink overpriced martinis. I don’t want to listen to a bunch of prissy music students singing about their long lost love over cheap, lukewarm beer. So you can take your fancy ascot to Callbacks, but I’m going to a real club, with or without your pansy ass.”

By the time they leave the closet - after modeling for Isabelle, of course - Kurt has agreed to trust Santana’s choice of venue. She’s already Googling the hottest spots in New York on a college kid’s budget as they walk back towards the subway with garment bags in hand.

“This is going to be the best damn New Year’s Eve party ever,” Santana announces, shoving the phone in the direction of her roommates.

“A gay cocktail cruise on the Hudson River? That’s even too gay for me, Santana,” Kurt scoffs, passing the phone back to her.

It did seem like the best way to enjoy the night - tons of gay men trying to put on the moves for a one-night stand, pretty colored cocktails, and some of the best people-watching around. But there might be lesbians, which could lead to Santana making bad decisions of her own. Plus, there’s no way to escape once the boat pulls away from the dock.

“I’ll figure out the plans,” Rachel tells them. “I’ve got some good connections now and I can guarantee that it will be fabulous, lack showtunes, and end by being the best night of our lives.” Santana raises an eyebrow at her. “Just trust in me, and you won’t be disappointed.”

What does she have to lose? It’s her first New Year’s Eve in a big city and no matter what, it’s going to be better than being in someone’s basement drinking cheap vodka and making out with some ridiculous meathead guy from McKinley, just to be reminded that she’s definitely 100% gay. No matter what, this New Year’s Eve just has to be fucking epic. After a crazy year, she’s ready to start the next one on a high note.


	18. Chapter 18

Santana knows she looks incredible. There’s something about wearing a designer dress that makes her feel like a princess, even if the slit in the dress cuts so high that if she bends down, someone would be able to see her ovaries. Still, it’s a dress she’d never be able to afford if it wasn’t for Kurt’s awesome connection at Vogue and she knows that she’s going to be turning heads the entire night.

She’s ready to kick off the New Year. Granted, they’re not leaving for another hour at least, but she figures it wouldn’t hurt to have a few pregaming cocktails in the loft while she waits for Rachel, who is painstakingly plucking her eyebrows, and Kurt, who still can’t choose which tie he’s going to wear tonight. Santana flips on the TV to watch New Year’s Eve with Ryan Seacrest, sitting gingerly on the couch so as to not wrinkle her dress before the night has really begun.

Her thoughts can’t help but stray to what Quinn is doing in New Haven - they spoke only briefly when Quinn got to her friend’s house yesterday. It’s hard to not feel bad that she told Quinn to not come celebrate with them. Really, it is mostly her own self-doubt that keeps her holding Quinn at an arm’s length away. It shouldn’t mean that Quinn doesn’t get to celebrate with her friends - Rachel is one of Quinn’s best friends, after all - and while she’s grateful that Quinn is respecting her wishes, it doesn’t make her feel any better about the situation.

Eventually Kurt and Rachel are ready to head out, and Santana has to admit, they’re an attractive bunch of underage kids about to take on a real New York City nightclub on one of the biggest party nights of the year. With a last check that her lipgloss looks impeccable, they’re out the door and on their way to Manhattan.

The subway and streets are more crowded than Santana has ever seen them, even though it’s already past ten o’clock. She strides down the sidewalk in her borrowed Jimmy Choos and smiles sweetly at the bouncer at the door of the club. Thankfully, he spends more time staring at her ample cleavage than her fake ID - though Rosario Cruz is a hot twenty-five year-old - and they slip through the ropes without a fuss.

It’s crowded inside the club and Santana pushes her way through people until she can at least see the bar. She looks around - some of her school friends are supposed to meet up here, as well as people Rachel and Kurt invited from NYADA - but all she can see are the flashing strobe lights and the shadowed throngs of people gyrating to the pounding music. 

It takes nearly twenty minutes until she can push her way up to the edge of the bar. By then, her pre-game buzz has worn off and she’s irritated by the music that’s so loud that she can’t think straight. Men constantly make passes at her and Rachel, their hands roaming freely without consent, causing Santana to slap them away before threatening to cut off their dicks. None of this is what she imagined for their big night out as adults, but she orders shots for the three of them and mixed drinks to chase them down before she drops a wad of cash and pushes them in the direction of the dance floor. It’s hardly enough to help her regain her buzz, but she figures dancing is at least more enjoyable than trying to flag down bartenders all night to buy overpriced cocktails.

Santana isn’t sure how much time passes, but she’s sweating and Rachel is giggling in her arms, and the night is okay, but part of her wishes that they were in their pajamas, jumbled up together on the couch watching the ball drop in Times Square on TV. Their friends eventually find them, and she has a few more drinks and dances with people, but her smile feels fake and her feet are killing her in these heels. More than once she glances at her phone - which is tucked into her bra for easy access - only to be disappointed by the lack of new messages appearing on the screen.

It’s selfish to hope that Quinn is thinking about her tonight when she flat-out told Quinn not to come. It’s unreasonable to think that right now they could have been wrapped up in one another, her arms around Quinn’s neck as they dance. It’s not a slow song and it would hold none of the romance that their first dance at Mr. Schue’s wedding did, but somehow the image makes it feel like this crazy mess could be coming full circle right now if only she wasn’t so scared.

Rachel seems to notice that Santana isn’t having the best of times, but for once she seems willing to let it be. Instead, she pulls Santana into her and shows off the fact that her sex appeal while dancing has increased ten-fold since she took classes with Cassandra July. It’s distracting enough to keep Santana from sulking - it’s hard to ignore the way Rachel’s strong legs flex as she dances, her hips rolling in beat with the music - but not enough to make her stop wishing that she was dancing with Quinn instead.

When the countdown to midnight starts, Santana finds herself standing by the bar, a fresh Jack and Diet clutched in her hand. She can see the way Rachel is looking around for her frantically, but she has no urge to move towards her friends. It feels oddly right to be standing alone as the music picks up with Auld Lang Syne and everybody around her starts kissing. She wonders if they’re lovers or just friends, strangers or soulmates. 

Santana pans back to Rachel, who is hugging her male lead from Funny Girl with a blissful smile tugging at her lips. Kurt has his tongue down some NYADA kid’s throat, and while Santana doubts it’ll end up going past some fun tonight, she’s glad to see her friends looking happy.

Part of her wants to just slip out of the club unnoticed so that she can head home. The magic of the night is wearing off fast and she’s ready to be alone in her bed where maybe she can finally stop thinking about the fact that her phone still is showing no new messages.

She knows it’s not Quinn’s turn to reach out. Quinn has been doing nothing but reaching out since the day Santana demanded she leave. It’s ridiculous of her to think that Quinn could possibly even think there’s a even still a spark here that could ignite into something real. Really, Santana knows she’s a fucking idiot and the fact that Quinn isn’t here could very well mean that they’re forever going to be living with the idea of what could have been.

Rachel somehow wades through the crowd until she’s standing in front of Santana with her arms open, obviously expecting Santana to give her a hug. It’s essentially the non-verbal equivalent to asking for one and it’s so quintessentially Rachel that she rolls her eyes, yet she steps into her roommate and allows herself to be enveloped by Rachel’s arms.

It’s impossible to hear over the loud, pounding bass blasting from the speakers, but there’s something in the way Rachel is looking at her that Santana knows Rachel manages to see beyond her fake smile. She tries to play it off and gestures towards the bar, offering to buy her friend another drink as a distraction before Rachel can start trying to psychoanalyze her.

She brushes off Rachel after they get their drinks in favor of dancing with some of her friends from school, though Rachel seems perfectly fine as she lets herself get swept up by some guy that reminds Santana a bit too much of Brody with his horsey grin and plastic-surgery-perfect nose. The drinks keep flowing as the club slowly starts to clear out now that midnight has come and passed, and by the time they’re stumbling out onto the sidewalk a little after two in the morning, Santana knows she’s more drunk than she’s been in a long time.

Kurt disappears into a cab with the NYADA boy after kissing both of Santana’s cheeks sloppily, and for some unknown reason, tears start to well up in Santana’s eyes. Her ears are still ringing from the incredibly loud music and she’s tired from hours of dancing, but there’s nothing really warranted about the tears that start running down her cheeks, dragging her makeup with it.

Rachel ushers her to the subway and clings to her as they squeeze into the car that’s packed with people trying to get home from their parties, everybody more dressed up than normal, pretty much everybody at least mildly intoxicated, and nobody noticing that Santana can’t stop crying.

When they finally get home, Rachel goes into caretaker mode. Santana wonders how she’s still so full of energy after so much alcohol and dancing, but it’s nice to have someone unzip her dress and help her shimmy out of it before she collapses face down onto her mattress.

“Are you okay?” Rachel asks, her voice meek like she’s afraid of waking a sleeping monster. That only makes Santana’s silent tears turn into full-fledged sobbing. She’s frustrated because she doesn’t even know what exactly she’s crying about, and she curses the fact that liquor makes the waterworks turn on without warning.

“I-I don’t know!” Santana wails, her brain unable to focus on what it is that’s making her so upset. So she just cries into the pillow and lets Rachel stroke her hair in an effort to calm her, though it’s really not effective.

Eventually, her body gives up to her exhaustion and she falls asleep to the sound of Rachel humming a song that seems like some ridiculous lullaby.

The first thing that she notices in the morning is the pounding in her temples. The second thing she notices is that she forgot to close the shades last night and the sun’s glare is enough to make her want to bury herself under the blankets for the rest of the year. The third thing she realizes is that she’s not the only person in her room.

She figures it’s just Rachel hovering like the worrywart that she is, but Rachel is never this quiet, even when she’s asleep.

Santana peeks one eyelid open, grimacing at the pain the sun causes her, and gets a blurry view of someone standing on the far side of her room, their back against the privacy curtain. She rubs at her eyes, trying to wipe the sleep from her eyes so she can focus on the person standing in her bedroom.

“Do you want some Advil or something?”

The voice is raspy and low. Santana would know it anywhere. Her eyes manage to zoom in on the blonde hair. She flips through the events of last night and she’s sure that she didn’t make any phone calls that would involve Quinn standing in her bedroom at barely seven in the morning on New Year’s Day.

“Hmm?” Santana mumbles, pushing herself up into a sitting position. She’s confused and tired and more hungover than she’s been in a long time. All she wants is to realize that this is a dream and that she can sink back into bed and sleep all of these racing emotions off.

“Get some sleep. I just wanted to drop something off for when you woke up.” She gestures towards Santana’s nightstand, where there’s a letter resting next to a bottle of Gatorade and a few aspirin tablets. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Before Santana can form cohesive sentences, Quinn is slipping around the curtain, leaving Santana to get some rest.

She grabs the pills and washes them down with a few big gulps of Gatorade. With a sigh, she falls back onto the pillows. Her thoughts are jumbled and the throbbing in her head doesn’t help. She’s tired and not ready to be dealing with the sudden appearance of Quinn, but sleep is futile at this point.

Santana lies in the bed, her eyes closed, as she wills her heart to start pounding furiously in her chest. Quinn is here, waiting for her, despite the fact that Santana had asked her to not come down for the holiday.

All of this reeks of Rachel. Rachel has no ability to mind her own business, so really a stunt like this shouldn’t surprise Santana at all. Even though she knows that this is Rachel’s doing after her little crying fit last night, Santana is still surprised that Quinn bothered to come at Rachel’s request when she knows that Santana asked her not to in the first place. That only serves to make Santana wonder what Rachel must have told Quinn to get her to rush to New York on such short notice.

Her headache settles slightly over the next hour, though she doesn’t get anymore sleep. When the pounding has subsided into a dull ache by her temples, she drags herself out of bed. She only catches a glimpse of the blonde girl sitting on their couch with Rachel before she ducks into the bathroom to shower.

When she’s toweling off, she catches little pieces of the conversation from the living room. It’s hard to ignore, even though she doesn’t really want to eavesdrop on what they’re saying.

“Just give her some time to process that you’re here. I’m sure she’ll talk to you eventually.”

“I wouldn’t blame her if she told me to just leave again. She asked me not to come in the first place.”

Quinn sounds resigned that Santana doesn’t want this at all. It’s difficult to hear, because even though she doesn’t feel ready to have a really serious conversation about their feelings, she hates the fact that she can make Quinn so insecure.

“You didn’t see her last night, Quinn. The countdown ended at midnight and she looked lost, like she was supposed to be with someone that actually mattered. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she pretty much had a complete meltdown for two hours afterwards. I wasn’t the one she wanted holding her, I’m sure about that.”

Santana’s stomach twists uncomfortably at how she made Rachel deal with her last night. In general, she actually had a decent time at the club, drinking and dancing with people she does truly care about. She wasn’t even upset that nobody kissed her at midnight - it’s cliché and completely overrated anyway - but she wasn’t elated at how part of her felt like it was missing the whole night that, deep down, she knew would have felt whole if Quinn had been there with them.

She makes a lot of noise before she exits the bathroom, even going so far as to purposely drop her hairbrush on the floor, so that Quinn and Rachel are warned that she’s emerging. They’re still on the couch - Rachel’s back is to her, but Quinn is leaning against the far arm of her couch, her body turned directly at the bathroom door.

It’s inevitable that their eyes meet - her willpower to avoid their piercing hazel is completely nonexistent - and Quinn’s face is stern, but her eyes are softer, almost searching. Santana isn’t sure if Quinn expects her to react to her presence or completely ignore her. Preferably, she’d choose option number two because confrontation is about the last thing she wants right now, but Quinn is in New York and she’d be a complete idiot if she told her to leave again. The fact is that she knows Quinn is being patient and respectful of her wishes, but Santana can’t help but notice that it’s driving a wedge between them, pushing further away from resolution.

Rachel must see the change in Quinn’s features - and the fact that she seems to have stopped mid-sentence upon Santana’s emergence from the bathroom - because she glances over her shoulder in Santana’s direction.

With a quick excuse that Santana doesn’t actually register, Rachel is off the couch and pulls her jacket off the coat rack by the door before she’s disappearing from the loft altogether. Santana glances back at Quinn when the sliding door shuts behind Rachel’s retreating back and finds Quinn eying her cautiously, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

“I can go back to New Haven,” Quinn starts, twisting her fingers together in her lap and pulling her eyes away from Santana to look at her hands instead. “You asked me not to come and I should know better than to go completely against your wishes, even if Rachel did call me in the middle of the night worried about you and -”

“Stay.”

Quinn freezes, her shoulders stiff like if she moves Santana will finally start lashing out in the way Quinn has obviously been anticipating. It’s weird for Santana to see Quinn backing down from a fight - usually she’s vicious and defensive and even borderline cruel - yet she sits statuesque on the couch waiting for Santana’s next request.

“You’re here already. We might as well talk,” Santana says with a shrug, crossing her arms protectively over her chest. Really, she has no idea how to start a conversation of this caliber. Sure, maybe the letters opened them to a real friendship and she can empathize with Quinn’s struggles better, but that doesn’t mean that they necessarily want the same things.

Either way, Quinn is going to be back in New Haven in the very near future and she’s going to be busy getting wrapped up in school and her college friends. Long distance didn’t work with Brittany - Santana was miserable and lonely all the time - and the idea of jumping into something like that again intimidates her. Plus, is it even what Quinn wants at this point?

There’s no way to find out unless they actually talk.

Santana sucks in a breath and crosses the room slowly. She chooses to sit on the arm of the couch, leaving as much room as possible between her and Quinn.

“Why did you come?” Santana can see the way that Quinn almost flinches at her words, like her unexpected presence is completely unwelcome, despite Santana telling her only moments ago that she should stay.

Quinn processes over an extended silence that leaves Santana on edge.

“Rachel said you were really upset last night and didn’t know what to do to help you.” Considering the amount of time she spent processing, Santana is a little skeptical of how simple the response was.

“I’ve always been a weepy drunk. You’ve seen it happen at least a dozen times over the years. You haven’t run to my side on all those other occasions,” Santana retorts. She knows she’s really just playing devil’s advocate; she and Quinn didn’t really have the relationship in high school where they comforted one another and since then there’s been at least 80 miles between them. Brittany had always been the source of comfort, not Quinn.

“Are you just trying to get me to admit that maybe I came here on a whim? That perhaps it was all wishful thinking on my part to show up when Rachel called me at four in the morning telling me that you were crying and mumbling my name repeatedly? Because I think you’re lying if you tell me that you truly didn’t want to spend last night with me, despite all that bullshit you fed me. And if you need to continue to lie to yourself in order to sleep at night, go right ahead, Santana. Just don’t expect me to rush here again when you finally decide you’re ready to handle the truth.”

The words land into the pit of Santana’s stomach in the way that Quinn’s slaps have in the past. So maybe they’re past the point of using violence in order to get one another to really listen, but the verbal venom is still very much alive.

Her shoulders slump and she drops down onto the couch cushion ungracefully as she bites back the retorts that rise up in her chest. It’s her weakness - the way she tries to make others hurt whenever she feels vulnerable - and she doesn’t want to use all the things that Quinn has trusted her with against her in anger. But it’s hard to break bad habits and she clutches her fists at her sides tightly as she fights the urges.

“I’m going for a walk,” Santana announces through gritted teeth.

It’s not a diva storm out by any means, but her head isn’t clear and she just knows it’s not going to end well. It takes her a couple of minutes to find her boots and a jacket that’s warm enough for walking around in the flurries that are starting to stick to the sidewalk.

Quinn doesn’t argue. In fact, she doesn’t say anything as Santana bundles up and heads for the door.

Santana is halfway down the block before she realizes that her exit might spur Quinn to disappear as quickly as she showed up. Yanking off her glove, Santana reaches into her pocket for her phone.

Stay there. I’ll be back in a little bit.

Maybe it’s a little too demanding. She couldn’t really blame Quinn if the girl took off to catch the next train out of New York. This whole morning had been anything but a fairytale - hell, the whole year had been somewhat of a disaster - yet she held onto hope that Quinn would stay put in the apartment for just a little while longer.

Quinn doesn’t answer, but Santana tries to ignore that fact as she works to figure out how to handle the situation if Quinn is still there when she gets back. Quinn means something to her. She has for as long as Santana can remember. Is it even possible after all the drama and misunderstandings and rejection that it could even come close to being love?

When her hands start to hurt from the icy wind, Santana ducks into a diner and orders two coffees to go. They’re warm against her skin as she heads back to the apartment, determined to have the mature, calm conversation that they’ve needed to have since before she showed up at Yale in the spring. They need to settle whatever direction things have been progressing since Santana asked Quinn to leave the weekend of Rachel’s opening night.

Her mind is a maze of all the wrong turns they’ve taken to get to this point, but one thing stands out clearly - she’s not ready to give up on Quinn.

Quinn is sitting in exactly the same place as she was when Santana stepped out, though she looks worn out. It hits Santana then that Rachel called her in the middle of the night and she probably caught the first morning train to New York after being out for the holiday. While Santana was attempting to sleep off the worst of her hangover, Quinn was waiting patiently despite her own exhaustion.

“I got you coffee,” Santana tells her, holding out the paper cups as evidence. Quinn smiles - it’s barely a curl of her lips, but Santana can tell that she’s grateful for the small gesture - and Santana sheds her boots and coat before walking over to hand one of them to Quinn.

“Thanks,” Quinn replies quietly, her hands cupping around its warmth.

“What made you get on the train?”

For some reason it’s the one thing that Santana needs to know. When Rachel was going through her pregnancy scare, Quinn didn’t show up in New York to save the day. Sure, she called all the time and made sure Santana was doing everything possible to make it better, but she never actually came rushing to Rachel’s aid. Santana wasn’t having a major life crisis. She got drunk and she got weepy, just like she often did when they were in high school.

The hesitation is drawn out, but Quinn’s eyes don’t leave Santana’s. She is contemplative, but Santana doesn’t understand why. Surely she has a reason for picking up and leaving at the slightest whisper of Santana being upset.

“What is it that you want me to say, Santana?” Her voice is small, almost pleading Santana to just tell her how to proceed. “Do you want to know that writing letters to you has been the highlight of my week and that I’m always on edge until I hear your response? Because that’s true. Would you like to know how much time I spend thinking about everything that transpired after the wedding and how I hate myself for pushing you away when all I really wanted was to have you closer than ever? What is it that you need to hear because God, Santana, I need to hear that you want to give us a real chance to make this thing between us really work more than I’ve ever needed anything before.”

It’s nothing like what Santana expected, nor does it really answer her question directly. Somehow, however, Quinn has made her point pretty clear. She’s here for the same reason that Santana rushed to New Haven all those months ago - she feels something bigger than the situation and she’s hoping desperately that Santana might feel the same way.

Words don’t come to her and all she can see are the tears that are sliding silently down Quinn’s pale cheeks, leaving a light trail of last night’s makeup in their wake. Yet her first thought is how beautiful Quinn looks, that she’d choose Quinn at her worst over anybody at their best every single fucking time. It’s her turn to decide whether to jump in or run away. 

Her heart is fragile. It’s been bruised and torn since this all began. But it’s also filled with more love than she ever remembers having. Despite the damage Quinn inflicted, Santana has also found real friendship in her roommates that she never imagined possible. She found a possible career path that she’s actually passionate about. She’s learned to love herself first.

So maybe it’s completely fucked up that the one that has hurt her is probably the only one that can fill the cracks.

“I’m scared.”

Santana’s own tears start burning in the corner of her eye and she inhales sharply in an attempt to ward them off. The cushions dip between them as Quinn shifts closer to Santana. Her hand moves up until it’s cupping Santana’s cheek softly. It’s warm from holding her coffee cup and Santana can’t help but lean into Quinn’s palm. Quinn’s fingers stroke her tenderly, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear before tracing the line of her jawbone.

Everything she wants to tell Quinn seems unimportant when she can feel every nerve ending in her body buzz with the sensation of Quinn touching her. It’s corny and she knows this isn’t some fairytale romance, but words seem unnecessary when Quinn is right here with her in this moment. She’s scared - terrified would probably be a more accurate description of her current emotion - but somehow it doesn’t stop her from leaning forward and balancing her weight on her hands that land on Quinn’s thighs.

Her nose is less than an inch from Quinn’s and she can clearly see the gold flecks in Quinn’s irises through the watery tears. Their breath mixes in the tiny space between them until Santana can’t resist anymore.

With a slight movement of her head, their lips are connecting. It feels like coming home and Santana never wants to leave again.

~!~!~!~

The emotions and hormones are out of control. Santana doesn’t know how much time has passed, but she does know that she’s out of breath, her lips are swollen and chapped, and her arms are numb from holding herself up on Quinn’s lap.

“We should probably talk about this,” Quinn whispers, her lips still grazing Santana’s as they move with her words. It sends chills down Santana’s entire spine and it takes all of her energy to rock back onto her own part of the couch before she can resume their kiss.

The idea of talking pulls Santana out of her elation and the fear creeps back in.

It’s not that she doesn’t think Quinn might not feel the same way. But what if being on the same page doesn’t help them get past all of the mistakes and regrets? There are so many doubts in her mind that they could actually have a chance to be truly happy. How can they push past years of hurt feelings and manage to have a healthy, fulfilling relationship? Considering most of their serious discussions have ended in physical violence, she doesn’t understand how things could possibly be different this time. All the truths in the world from Quinn doesn’t help the fact that Santana doesn’t know if she can trust them to not blow this last ditch attempt at making things work.

“Let’s get brunch.” Quinn seems a little taken aback by Santana’s abrupt change - her back is stiff, her eyes dart away from where Quinn is sitting, almost like she’s rebuilding the barrier that was finally crumbling away - but she rolls with it, sliding up from the couch and grabbing her purse from where it looks like it was dropped hastily upon her early morning arrival.

They have to try three different places before they find one that’s open on the holiday. They’re the only patrons in the entire place and Santana hates that it feels like all of the staff’s eyes are on the two tear-streaked teenagers sitting in a tiny booth.

It’s not the way she pictured starting the New Year; however, she can say that it’s a pleasant change in events. There’s a quiet comfort being in Quinn’s presence, even with all of the underlying tension between them. She loves watching Quinn’s little quirks, like the way she shakes the sweetener packets before pouring them into her coffee and how she fiddles with her silverware nervously as they wait for their food. Truth be told, Santana wants to re-familiarize herself with every little thing about Quinn and sitting across from her allows her an opportunity to study Quinn casually.

Quinn seems grateful when their food arrives and she slips her napkin across her lap primly. Everything she does is graceful and full of poise, down to every bite of her omelette and home fries. Santana’s appetite is weak - her hangover has nauseated her plenty - so she picks at her own food.

“This is kind of nice,” Quinn muses, resting her fork primly on the edge of her plate and looking up at Santana.

Santana smiles at her because it does feel sort of awesome to just do something as simple as having a meal with Quinn after months of not seeing her in person.

“Are you scared of what could happen if this doesn’t work out?” Santana asks her. It’s not that she wants to ruin the moment, but things feel too freaking good. She feels like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop and have everything go completely to shit again.

“Of course I am. We’re not exactly the best at relationships and we’re probably the two most volatile people around. But do you really want to not take a chance just because something might not happen?”

Santana stomachs a small bite of her eggs before responding.

“What happens if things blow up and we can’t handle talking anymore? I don’t know if I can do that, Q.”

“I don’t think the glee club will ever let us completely drift apart, even if we want to,” Quinn jokes, but Santana can feel the way the contents of her stomach churn uncomfortably. “Even at the worst of our friendship lately, we’ve still managed to stay in touch at least a little.”

“Fucking and being civil is one thing. Going through a messy breakup is a whole different level.”

Quinn nods her head minutely, agreeing with Santana’s point.

“Is the ‘what if’ factor enough for you to skip over seeing how great this could be?” Quinn shoots back, her eyebrow quirking in the way that always makes Santana’s stomach fill with butterflies.

“I don’t think there’s really an answer to that,” Santana replies, a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. It’s fucking terrifying, but she’d rather have a million meaningless meals in an empty diner with Quinn than regret the chances she never took. 

She waits for Quinn to finish her omelette before she asks the waitress for the bill and takes care of it with a wave of her hand in Quinn’s direction.

“Consider it a first date,” she teases, dropping a few crumpled bills on top of the receipt for the tip.

It’s impossible to miss the smile that leaves dimples in Quinn’s cheeks as Santana helps her back into her coat. The cold forces Santana’s hands into her own pockets as they walk back towards the loft.

The silence is filled with a new energy. Santana finds herself nearly bouncing on her toes as they walk side-by-side. It’s a new year and a fresh start. And for once, it’s one that she’s excited about.


	19. Chapter 19

It’s only mid-day, but Santana knows she’s still exhausted and Quinn’s eyes are drooping from obvious lack of sleep. Rachel and Kurt are nowhere to be seen when they return from brunch and Santana changes into sweatpants, tossing a pair in Quinn’s direction as well since she looks like she traveled with exactly nothing useful.

Santana turns on the TV, but she tunes it out as her eyes fight to stay open. Quinn sits stiffly at the other end of the couch looking ridiculously adorable in Santana’s pants.

“C’mere,” Santana mumbles, stretching out and opening her arms. It’s not a very wide couch - or really comfortable for that matter - but getting to hold Quinn close to her is worth the neck pain that she’s sure will set in later.

As soon as Quinn is settled, having pulled a throw blanket down over them in the process, Santana doesn’t fight her exhaustion. She falls asleep with Quinn’s hair tickling her cheek and Quinn’s warmth pressed against her on the narrow couch.

Rachel has never learned the artful skill of whispering. If Quinn wasn’t snoring so freaking adorably into her shoulder, Santana would probably growl at her roommates.

“Kurt, they’re just so cute! There’s nothing creepy about taking a picture!”

“There are million reasons why that’s creepy,” Kurt hisses. Santana cracks her eyes open to see Kurt trying to grab Rachel’s phone.

“You can’t deny how sweet they look! It’s like a New Year’s miracle.”

Santana bites her tongue to keep from telling Rachel off. It’s her typical response to being even the slightest bit vulnerable. But maybe if she just keeps pretending to sleep, they’ll go away and let her to enjoy the way that Quinn is tangled up with her.

“Will you two just please go away?” Quinn grumbles into Santana’s neck. Her hot breath makes Santana shiver slightly and she tightens her arm around Quinn, pulling Quinn into her more tightly.

Rachel squeaks, like there’s no way that their voices would have been able to wake up the sleeping girls on the couch. But then again, Rachel should also be much more aware of her ability to whisper effectively.

Santana’s neck is stiff anyway, and while it’s nice having Quinn practically glued to her, the couch is not the most conducive place to catch up on her sleep. Before Rachel can start some long-winded conversation about what this new development means for the dynamic within their roommate agreement, Santana tugs Quinn off the couch and takes off for her partition, yanking the curtain closed behind her.

Rachel, finally, has learned better than to disturb a cranky, sleep-deprived Santana, and she leaves them alone, though her voice still carries through the little apartment. Quinn seems to be of the same mind and slips under the covers next to Santana, their bodies brushing despite the extra space that the bed provides. Santana pulls her in closer like any inch between them is too many.

Quinn lets out a tiny, content sigh as she fits herself into Santana’s arms, her head nuzzling into the crook of Santana’s shoulder. The apartment is anything but quiet - Kurt and Rachel have begun arguing about the state of Rachel’s wardrobe choices - but it’s home. 

The next time Santana wakes up, it’s to Quinn’s lips pressed against her neck and a hand stroking along her abs.

She knows that they should talk before things move too fast - that was definitely a problem for them in the past at least - but her body disagrees in the way it reacts to Quinn’s light, yet purposeful touches. Santana suppresses a moan as she feels Quinn’s tongue draw a trail down to where her neck meets her shoulder, but she shifts slightly, allowing her arm to wrap around Quinn’s waist and pull her closer.

It’s so easy to fall back into this - Quinn manages to melt her composure with the simplest stroke of her fingers across her stomach - and Santana lets herself sink into Quinn’s touch knowing that she isn’t going to run away this time.

Her body is desperate for more if the ache coursing through her body is anything to go by. For a minute, she wants to ignore the nagging part of her brain that is telling her that they shouldn’t rush into the physical aspect of this budding relationship and let her actions do the talking, but her brain wins out and her muscles tighten under Quinn’s teasing tongue.

“You okay?” Quinn asks her, hot mouth still flush to the skin of Santana’s neck.

“I - I just think that maybe we should try to not repeat our mistakes.” It’s hard to keep her thoughts coherent with the way Quinn is touching her, and she doesn’t want to pull away - she never wants to make Quinn feel like she doesn’t want her again.

Quinn moves away on her own accord, rolling onto her back next to Santana on the bed. Their shoulders touch slightly beneath the blanket, but Santana sucks in a breath and tries to steady her pounding heart.

“Is it too early to discuss labels?” Santana queries, failing miserably at trying to sound nonchalant.

“I don’t know how this stuff works, San. I’m used to being doted on by guys who have to handle all of these types of conversations.”

“Well I’m not cool with you seeing other people if we’re sleeping together,” Santana tells her firmly. She’s sick of being hurt by Quinn’s indecisive ways.

Quinn sighs loudly and sits up so that she can look directly at Santana.

“Are you really dumb enough to think that I’ve been putting all this effort into gaining your trust AND that I would come all the way to New York on New Year’s Day because I want to sleep with you while doing whatever the hell I want with everybody else too? You’re so thick sometimes, Santana.”

Santana stomach turns over in a mix of relief and guilt. At this point, she should be able to trust that Quinn isn’t going to fuck her over. And god, she wants to trust her so badly. Quinn was - is - her best friend. That should mean something in the grand scheme of things.

Quinn may not know about her childhood the way that Brittany does. She doesn’t understand Santana’s quirks the way Rachel and Kurt have learned to. She probably can’t name Santana’s favorite color or how old she was when she got her first period or why she feels like she’ll never please her father.

But she accepts that she doesn’t know everything. She lets Santana move at her own pace. Trusting people, letting them in and allowing them to witness her vulnerability has never been Santana’s strong suit. Quinn gets that. Quinn accepts that she can’t change Santana.

Maybe that’s why Santana drops the conversation. Or maybe it’s because there’s that fucking pull, no matter how fucked up the situation gets, that always keeps her tangled up in Quinn.

There’s no need to answer in words when Quinn is so close to her, half-covered in the blankets, her bedhead wild from their nap. As insane as it all is, as messed up as the past ten months have felt, this is the girl that Santana always wanted to call her own. And, against all odds, Quinn feels the same way.

Her lips meet Quinn’s in a frenzied rush of emotion. It’s not graceful or elegant. It’s rough, almost barbaric, but it heats up Santana in a feverish manner. They don’t need words to explain that this feels right, that it’s okay to seize the moment and make it their own. Quinn responds in a way that makes Santana sure that she can read her mind; her hands grip at Santana’s shirt, keeping her from pulling away. They’re tethered here together, unafraid of what it all might mean, of how easily it could all fall apart and what that would do to their friendship.

It’s easy to let her cares wash away when Quinn is kissing her like she never wants to stop. Santana lets her, her own hand coming up to tangle in blonde hair. She tries to slow down, but her body disagrees. Every inch of her body feels like ignited, every neuron is firing rapidly. She wants Quinn - no, needs Quinn - in a manner that scares the fuck out of her, but also completely makes sense to her.

Quinn is her match. She’s got her own brand of crazy, of insecurity, of fear. She’s kind of screwed up, but she’s also brilliant and funny and thoughtful.

It’s never been easy. Santana doubts it ever will be. They’re both strong-willed and stubborn. Their fights tend to occur at epic proportions. The lows have been some of Santana’s lowest. But the highs have been higher than anything she ever could have imagined.

They can figure this out. She knows it. She feels it.

Santana doesn’t stop Quinn when she starts tugging at the drawstring of her sweatpants. They may not have a formal commitment, but she knows that this is about a lot more than sex. It’s a consummation of sorts; while it’s not a verbal agreement, Santana knows that it’s their promise to one another that this is the real thing. They’re not sleeping with other people. They’re dating. It might be too early for the distinct girlfriend label, but she knows that it’s waiting for them just around the corner.

She pulls at Quinn’s clothes with all of the needy desire of their first time. Santana needs Quinn naked, needs to feel Quinn’s nails dig into lower back as she begs for more, needs to hear her name falling from Quinn’s lips.

But this is better than the hotel room. There’s a softness to their caresses, a fondness at the way that they know one another better than they ever have.

Quinn pushes her harder than anyone else. She challenges Quinn and forces her to not settle.

It works for them.

This works for them.

They come together, Santana hovering above Quinn, their moans caught between their joined mouths. When her arm supporting her weight finally gives out as her muscles quiver, she collapses onto Quinn, the bodies damp from exertion, their chests heaving against one another.

“Oh my GOD that went on forever!” Santana hears Rachel stage whisper to Kurt in the living room. “Is lesbian sex always that satisfying?”

“You’re definitely asking the wrong person,” Kurt replies, the obvious disgust evident in his voice. “I avoid thinking about girl parts at all costs.”

“Is it always this gossipy here?” Quinn whispers against the shell of Santana’s ear. Santana can’t help but chuckle. Quinn should have at least some inkling about Rachel and Kurt’s personalities and nosy behaviors by now, even if it means staying in the apartment while they have passionate sex and then commenting on it afterward.

“Should we show them how loud we can really get?” Santana asks, an evil grin settling on her face.

Quinn smiles back at her, playfulness dancing within the glint of her eyes.

“They’re going to wish that curtains were soundproof,” Quinn tells her before flipping them over and kissing Santana again.

~!~!~!~

“I need to go back to New Haven,” Quinn tells her, pulling her shoes on by the front door of the loft.

“You don’t have classes for another week. Stay a few more days.”

“San, I ran out of clean clothes two days ago. I have to leave sometime.”

It’s obvious that Quinn is trying to rip open the situation like she’d pull off a Band-Aid. It’s been four days since she showed up in New York. She hardly packed more than a toothbrush.

But Santana doesn’t want this perfect little bubble to burst. All of their crap started with the time Quinn left her alone in that hotel room.

“You don’t have to wear clothes, ya know,” Santana teases, hoping if nothing else, the allure of sex will keep Quinn here for at least one more afternoon.

“I’m sure your roommates are already sick of having to listen to us having sex. I have things I need to do, you have to work every night. It’s just part of life unfortunately.”

“But I don’t want you to leave.” Santana knows exactly how pathetic she sounds and she actually makes herself cringe. Who would have thought that Quinn would bring this out in her?

However, it makes Quinn smile and she moves away from the door until her arms are circling Santana’s waist and are pulling her in. They stand there for a moment, Quinn embracing Santana tenderly, before Santana returns the favor and drapes her arms over Quinn’s shoulders.

“I’ll come visit soon,” Quinn promises her. “And we can talk every day.”

She kisses Santana’s forehead before dipping down to capture her lips. It’s soft and sweet, absent of all the hurried, frantic emotion that used to accompany their kisses.

Maybe it’s growing up. There’s no bigger goal, there’s no intention beyond just wanting to be close to one another. It’s not going to lead to sex, and Santana is fine with that. But it does make her wish that Quinn would give in and stay, even if it’s just for a few more hours.

“Let me take you to the train station,” Santana pleads. She doesn’t demand it. Quinn is an independent person who has had way too much experience with overbearing, relatively controlling men in her lifetime. 

“There’s no need. You’re just going to pay to take the subway just to turn around and come back to Brooklyn.”

“Maybe I enjoy being a chivalrous lady,” Santana tells her, drawing a smile from Quinn.

“You can be chivalrous by carrying my bag to the subway stop. If there are any puddles along the way, I’ll allow you to put your coat over them so my feet don’t get wet,” Quinn reasons.

“This is real leather. There’s no way I’m throwing it over a puddle!”

Quinn laughs, her eyes crinkling at the corners with happiness.

Santana gives in and picks up Quinn’s bag. It’s light and she tosses it over her shoulder easily as she slides open the door for Quinn to proceed through it.

Thankfully, they don’t encounter any puddles on the way. Honestly, Santana’s not sure if she would have even noticed because she’s absorbed in the enthusiastic way Quinn is talking about the literary magazine she joined and how Quinn’s hand finds the crook of her elbow as they walk. The blocks fade away quickly and then end up at the top of the subway entrance, pausing to deal with the idea of goodbye.

Quinn’s gloved fingers come up and brush along Santana’s cheek tenderly before dropping to her side. It’s such a simple gesture, a sweet caress, and Santana feels her heart constrict with the idea of Quinn leaving again after such a short visit. It’s always been the nature of their relationship - someone always has to leave.

This time, at least it’s different. This time, she knows that the promise of another visit soon will actually be fulfilled.

She kisses Quinn. It doesn’t matter that they’re on a busy street corner in Brooklyn with trash blowing past her feet. She doesn’t care about the men working across the street who whistle at them as they enjoy their lunch break. It’s a new year and a new beginning. Quinn is kissing her back like she wishes that she never had to leave.

It’s a few more moments before they break apart. The wind is cold and stings Santana’s cheeks, despite the heat that is burning her from inside.

“I need to go,” Quinn reminds her. Santana buries her cold hands into the pockets of her jacket with a shrug. “I’ll call tonight once I’m settled in, okay?”

Santana nods. She has no choice but to accept it. Quinn is leaving, whether she likes it or not.

“We’ll figure out another visit in a couple of weeks. This isn’t the end of the world, Santana.”

She pecks Santana once more on the corner of her mouth before reaching for her bag. Santana gives it to her and gives a little wave as Quinn starts to descend the stairs.

“Quinn!” She calls out, turning the corner so she’s standing at the top of the stairs looking down at the blonde girl. People move around her, scoffing at the disturbance in their path. Quinn looks up at her, confused. “You’re mine, right?”

Quinn’s lip quivers for a second before becoming serious again. She takes her time walking back up the stairs she had just descended.

“What gave you that idea?” she teases, kissing Santana’s nose playfully. Santana just continues to look at her seriously. She needs to hear Quinn say it before she disappears again. “For god’s sake, of course I’m yours. Idiot.”

Santana smiles at her, wraps her arms around Quinn’s waist and kisses her, this time like a real goodbye.

“Have a safe trip,” she tells Quinn as Quinn moves slowly out of her grip and starts heading down the stairs again.

She doesn’t stop her this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: This is the end of the road. I can’t even explain how much I’ve loved writing this story over the past year. I never would have imagined that I would have gotten so much love and support and I’ve appreciated every comment, review, ask, and favorite I’ve gotten from this story. I can’t thank my wonderful friend, quasisuspect, enough for her help, whether it be listening to me ramble about how Leigh and Santana should be endgame in the middle of the night or dealing with my rushed grammatical errors. There will be an epilogue. I’m not writing a sequel; however, I do have a handful of one-shots that occur in this ‘verse that I’ll publish eventually.


	20. Epilogue

Quinn loves Yale.

But Yale isn’t home.

Home is Bushwick. It’s in that little diner that she and Santana first had brunch on New Year’s Day. It’s in Santana’s tiny personal space of the loft with no real walls.

Sometimes it’s on a blanket in Central Park or in a gallery at the Museum of Modern Art.

On occasion, it’s even back in Lima.

Of course, only if Santana is there too.

She was never one to believe in Billy Joel lyrics. Yet over the past year, home really has become another word for Santana.

Today, it’s on a bench outside of Santana’s campus.

Santana meets her here as soon as class lets out. It’s a Friday afternoon in early spring and the air is finally mild. Quinn hands her the paper cup - a soy vanilla latte - and Santana kisses her on the cheek before accepting it and sitting down beside her.

They people watch for a while, commenting sometimes, but mostly just enjoying their drinks in silence. It’s a busy area of campus and students pass through, some in small groups complaining about upcoming finals, others yammering away into a cell phone. These people have a purpose, a goal to their actions. Quinn’s not in a rush. She’s only in New York for the weekend - her own finals are only two weeks away - but she’s over the need to explore. If she gets to sit all afternoon with Santana, that’ll be more than enough.

“Where do you see yourself after graduation?” Quinn asks Santana, her gaze still on the people moving through campus.

It’s not an interrogation; Santana still has two years of college to go. Quinn only has one more and the looming thoughts of where her future may take her have been hanging over her like a dark cloud since the moment her advisor brought up graduate school applications and internship opportunities.

“I don’t know. I like it here in New York,” Santana admits, sipping her latte and reaching over for Quinn’s hand. “Stop worrying so much.”

It’s been almost a year and a half since Quinn showed up at the loft after Rachel’s frantic call. Time moves quickly, she’s discovered. Despite the amount of time they spend together, she’s still amazed at how Santana can read her like she’s an open book, even when she’s the most closed off.

The fact is that she is worrying. And she doesn’t even need to say that for Santana to know.

Maybe she’s projecting. Maybe it’s in the way her fingers are tense around Santana’s. Maybe it’s that she’s not even supposed to be in New York this week, but she couldn’t stay away.

Whatever it is, Santana knows her better than she knows herself some days.

Quinn’s going to graduate school. She has no idea where. It’s a big country. There are overseas options that would experiences of a lifetime. But Santana will still be in New York, at least for a year after Quinn finishes her undergrad.

“I just didn’t know if you’ve thought about the future,” Quinn deflects as she focuses on keeping her grip loose on Santana’s fingers. “Your line of work is foreign to me. I didn’t know if you were going to chase opportunities elsewhere.”

“I still have two years to get through before I can make those decisions. But if this is your way of trying to see if I’ll wait for you if you get into some crazy good program halfway across the world, the answer will always be yes, Q.”

Quinn turns and sees how genuine Santana is. She’s only gotten more beautiful since high school, her cheeks filling out, her eyes alight with wonder. Quinn kisses her, a hand coming up to cup Santana’s cheek. 

She knows she’s high maintenance. She’s a planner. The idea of uncertainty terrifies her. When she starts flying away, Santana is the tether that keeps her grounded. So even though the idea of having no real plans for the future freaks her out beyond measure, she knows that she can trust Santana to save her from herself.

~!~!~!~

“Just open it, Q.”

Santana has probably repeated that sentence a dozen times in the past half an hour.

It’s not the first letter to have come. Quinn has already heard back from Stanford, Duke, and Dartmouth. But this is Columbia. And Columbia is in New York. New York is where Santana is. 

Despite how many times she’s told herself that she needs to make a decision based on which program is the right fit for her, the weight of possibly being in New York for the next four years sits heavily on her shoulders.

“Do you want me to open it?” Santana has never been a patient person, and Quinn can tell when Santana is wearing thin. Her hands are slightly shaky, her palms sweaty from the anxiety. She tears the envelope slowly and carefully along the top, making sure to not disturb the letter from within.

Santana snatches it from her, tearing it wide open and unfolding the letter, letting the envelope fall haphazardly off the bed.

“Dear Lucy, it’s with great pleasure that we would like to…”

“I got in?” Quinn interrupts, yanking the letter back from Santana.

“You got in, babe.”

Santana kisses her, softly at first, but soon the letter is being dropped from Quinn’s hand as she gets pressed back into the mattress, Santana climbing over to straddle her hips. Their lips have a conversation that their voices are too scared to have.

If Quinn goes to California or North Carolina or New Hampshire or somewhere else that she’s bound to get in, things are going to change. None of those places are a two-hour ride on the Metro North.

They’re all great schools. They’re all amazing options, each one better than the next.

Santana tries to assuage her fears, tries to show her with her kiss that she’s proud of Quinn, that she’ll support her as much as she can, even if it’s from the other side of the country.

They kiss until they’re breathless. Santana balances her weight on her hands on either side of Quinn’s head.

“I want to come to New York,” Quinn tells her, tone more serious than Santana has ever heard.

“Q- you’ve got time to think about this. You haven’t even heard from all of your schools yet.”

“I’m supposed to be here. I want to be here, okay?” Tears form in the corner of her eyes in a mixed confusion of sheer joy and utter terror at making such a huge decision.

“Move in with me.”

“What?” Quinn asks, confused.

“If you’re coming to New York, move in with me.”

“Your apartment is already cramped enough with Rachel and Kurt and Kurt’s new boyfriend there all of the time. I’m going to have tons of work to do and you’re going to be busy with your senior project and -”

“So we’ll get a place of our own,” Santana responds with a shrug, sitting up and settling on Quinn’s lap.

She pulls her hair up into a messy bun, arms flexing in her tanktop. Quinn licks her lips and can still taste Santana on them. The idea of getting to be like this every day is overwhelming in the best of ways.

“If I agree, does it mean that I get to pick out the furniture?”

“Do you not trust my taste?”

“When we watched A Christmas Story, you told me that the leg lamp was, and I quote, ‘a fine piece of art’.”

Santana laughs heartily, her stomach flexing underneath the thin shirt. Quinn runs her hand along it before collecting the material in her fist and pulling Santana back down.

“Fine, you can pick as long as the couch is wide enough to have sex comfortably,” Santana compromises, smirking against her girlfriend’s lips. “And no pink bath towels. I draw the line at pink.”

“Then you’ve got yourself a deal, Lopez.”

No matter where it is, it’ll be home. It will be theirs, their safe place away from the world. The place that they can be completely themselves. Quinn doesn’t care about the view from the window or what the countertops are made of. She barely listens to the landlord explain the amenities. She’s fixed on Santana, who is roaming around the empty living room happily, humming with excitement.

There’s no discussion needed. If Santana looks that beautiful standing in the middle of an empty room, it’s a place Quinn can see forever in.

“We’ll take it,” she tells the man and he looks taken aback, having not even finished his spiel about all of the building amenities. It’s in New York. It’s got room for both her and Santana. And now it’s theirs.

The landlord leaves Quinn with a stack of papers to sign and sees himself out of the apartment, giving the girls a minute to themselves.

“It feels like home,” Santana tells her, hands coming to rest around Quinn’s neck.

“It is home,” Quinn reminds her. They smile against one another as their lips meet. She doesn’t need to tell Santana that anywhere could be home as long as they are together.


End file.
